Some women find trouble wherever they go. And some men are their only protection against it.

Redheads like Maggie O’Connell are nothing but trouble. But Trace Rawlins, a former army ranger turned private investigator, takes the case anyway. After all, he knows a thing or two about women.

Trace can sense that something is wrong—Maggie isn’t telling him everything. If these menacing calls and messages are real, why won’t the police help her? And if they aren’t real, what is she hiding?

As Trace digs deeper to find the source of Maggie’s threats, he discovers a secret that no one was meant to uncover. And the only puzzle left to be solved is whether the danger comes from an unknown stalker…or from the woman he’s trying his hardest not to fall for.

Read what people are saying about Kat Martin’s New York Times bestselling series

The Raines of Wind Canyon

Against the Wind

“This is definitely a page-turner… a ‘don’t miss’ read set in the beautiful surroundings of Wyoming. Kat Martin is a very gifted writer who takes you from the beginning to the end in total suspense.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Kat Martin has delivered yet another rockin’ romantic suspense. Stockpiled with suspense and passion, Against the Wind kept me reading, dying to find out the truth…I’ll be intently waiting for Jackson’s brothers’ upcoming stories. I can’t recommend [it] highly enough!”

—Joyfully Reviewed

“With the first novel of her new Raines of Wind Canyon trilogy, Martin brings us…a story filled with romance, grit, tension and suspense set in the Wyoming mountains. Martin definitely delivers.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Ms. Martin not only writes a highly entertaining book…she also tackles some major social issues in the process…Complete with bad guys, gun fights, and romance, this book will not disappoint. I look forward to the next in the series, and continue to hold Kat Martin’s talents in very high esteem.”

—Romance Readers Choice

“Rough, tumble, and ready to ride anytime, anywhere is Jackson Raines head to toe.… Their story heats the blood, races the heart, and makes you hungry for more.”

—Coffee Time Romance

“Writing a western romance is more than just knowing the lay of the land or the history, it is grabbing the flavor for the people and surroundings. Kat Martin has completely captured that… This story brings romance, suspense and the most wonderful feeling that reminds us we are all suckers for a romantic ending.”

—The Reading Reviewer Blog

Against the Fire

“There’s something irresistible about a bad boy.… There’s lots of sizzle and burn—and it’s not all from a mysterious arsonist—when Gabe meets the fiery and surprising Mattie. This sexy page-turner is a perfect blend of romance, mystery and action.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Right from the opening scene, readers will be pulled into the heart-stopping action…[and] hold their breath as each fire brings even more danger for Mattie and Gabe… A fascinating page-turner, one you won’t want to miss.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“I loved the integration between many of my favorite genres into one power packed novel… it’s wonderful to see a writer so openly embrace being completely realistic in her romance novels.”

—Romance Books Forum

“After reading the first book about the Raines brothers, I knew Kat Martin would have to do something pretty amazing to make her second book as much of a joy to read. As soon as I opened the book, I realized that she has succeeded…I simply loved this book. I didn’t want to put it down.”

—Suspense Romance Writers

Against the Law

“Once you start Against the Law, be prepared not to stop until you’ve reached the end. With its nonstop action, nail biting episodes mixed with some sizzling love scenes, this is one I highly recommend.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“4 ½ quills! Ms. Martin has struck the motherload…Against the Law [is] by far the most powerfully intense romantic suspense with its charismatic characters, [and] a story line that defies gravity.”

—Romantic Crush Junkies

“An amazing story line that will keep you enthralled.”

—Night Owl Romance

“…full of suspense and romance…a riveting story that will keep readers on the edge of their seats.”

—RT Book Reviews

Against the Storm

Kat Martin

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my personal assistant and friend, Rita Michell, for her many years of hard work and support.

And for making all the hard work fun.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Author’s Note

One

Houston, Texas

Snow Dogs. Trace Rawlins sat at a table in back of the Texas Café thinking of his client and her white rapper husband, Bobby Jordane, the lead singer of the wildly successful rap music group, the Snow Dogs.

It seemed the perfect name for the mangy group, who sang about decadent society yet seemed to be the root of the problem. Only Bobby was married, his beautiful wife of the last three years was a creamy cocoa-skinned African American. Why she had ever married the guy, aside from his seven-figure bank account, Trace couldn’t imagine.

Apparently, Shawna had come to the same conclusion, for she sat a few tables away next to her attorney, Evan Schofield, there for a meeting with Bobby.

Bobby Jordane was a wife beater par excellence, and he was extremely unhappy that Shawna had filed for divorce. But Schofield had managed to set up a meeting at a neutral location kept secret from the media, in the hope something could actually be accomplished.

The restaurant was old and narrow, with wooden floors and a long, varnished-wood lunch counter, a place for locals where a guy like Bobby wouldn’t even be recognized. This time of day, the lunch crowd was gone and it was too early for dinner patrons. Only two other tables were occupied, one by an older man and his wife drinking chocolate shakes, another by two young women eating hamburgers. One of them was a foxy redhead Trace tried not to notice, but his gaze wandered back to her again and again.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have a penchant for trouble where redheads were concerned.

He returned his thoughts to the meeting at hand, which was supposed to include only Bobby and his attorney, Shawna and Evan Schofield, Trace’s longtime friend.

But Bobby was a hothead, and Evan was no fool. He didn’t trust Bobby, and neither did Trace. Everyone in Houston had read about the couple’s fiery clashes and Bobby’s out-of-control behavior, which recently had landed him in jail. Shawna had threatened to file a restraining order, and Evan had hired Trace, a private detective and the owner of Atlas Security, to keep a protective eye on his client.

The bell above the café door rang, flipping the little ruffled curtain above the glass. True to form, Bobby sauntered in without his attorney, just the other two obnoxious members of the Snow Dogs.

Clyde “The Mountain” Thibodaux hailed from New Orleans. Big, bald and tattooed, he was bare-chested beneath his leather vest. A small black goatee clung to his chin.

Lenny Finks, known to his fans as Lenny the Sphinx, was the nerd of the group. Skinny and homely, with kinky auburn hair, he was the talent behind the act, the guy who wrote the music, though Trace refused to call it that. Lenny was harmless, except for the viperous tongue he used to lash at the group’s critics. He was a necessary component and the reason for the group’s unbelievable success.

Bobby himself was as tall as Trace, about six-two, and as lean and solidly built. Having taken years of martial arts, Bobby thought he was a tough guy. Trace flicked a glance at the bruises on Shawna Jordane’s beautiful face, clamped down on a surge of anger and wished he could show him ex-Ranger tough.

Instead, he tipped back his white straw cowboy hat, shifted in his chair and sipped his coffee, his gaze fixed on Bobby, who swaggered over to Shawna’s table, his friends close behind.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hello, Bobby.” Her voice held the faint edge of fear.

Bobby turned a hard look on the man beside her. “So…Evan…you wanted me to come down here so we could have a little chat. Is that right?”

The lawyer, a slender man with sandy brown hair and intelligent eyes, sat up a little straighter in his chair. “I was hoping we might be able to make some progress in the matter of your divorce,” he said.

Bobby shifted, his legs splayed in a belligerent stance. “You get my wife to file for divorce and you want me to come here so we can talk?” Reaching out, he grabbed Evan by his red-striped power tie and hauled him to his feet. Shawna screamed and Trace went into action.

Tossing Lenny out of the way like the skinny little runt he was, he reached out and grabbed hold of the back of Bobby’s black, silver dragon T-shirt. Trace spun him around, waited an instant for Bobby to throw the first punch, then ducked and nailed him solidly in the jaw. Bobby went down like a sack of wheat, his head hitting the wooden floor with a melonlike thump that had his eyes rolling back in his head.

“You son of a bitch!” Clyde’s blunt, meaty hands balled into fists as he lumbered forward, swinging a roundhouse punch meant to send a man to his knees. Trace ducked, turned a little and threw a straight-from-the-shoulder blow that sank four inches into the big man’s stomach. Clyde grunted, doubled over, and Trace took him out with an uppercut to the chin.

Blood gushed from his nose and Clyde flew backward, knocking over a table and sending the surprised older couple scrambling out of the way. It was exactly the kind of thing Evan Schofield had hoped to prevent when he had hired Trace.

“Sorry, buddy.”

Evan held up a hand. “Not your fault. I should have known this wouldn’t work.” He grinned. “Besides, it was worth it to see Bobby get what he had coming.”

Shaking off the ache in his hand, Trace reached down and picked up his cowboy hat, settled it once more on his head. Lenny stood next to Bobby with his mouth gaping and his eyes wide. “Y-you shouldn’t have done that.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Bobby…Bobby’s gonna be really mad.”

Trace chuckled softly. “If you’re smart, you’ll get him out of here before somebody calls the police. He doesn’t need any more trouble.”

Evan pulled out Shawna’s chair. “Let’s go.”

She rose shakily to her feet and turned to Trace. “Thank you, Mr. Rawlins. You have no idea how good that made me feel.”

A corner of his mouth edged up. “Oh, I think I do.”

Shawna turned and started walking, but before she had reached the door, a camera flashed, capturing her retreat. Then the photographer turned toward the man moaning softly on the floor. The camera flashed again and again, taking photos of Bobby Jordane that would be wildly embarrassing to a guy with an ego as massive as his.

Trace inwardly cursed. The redhead. Just as he’d figured, they were nothing but trouble.

Striding toward her, he reached out and jerked the camera from her hands, turned it around and deleted the last series of digital photos.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t do that!”

“Nice camera,” Trace said. Walking over to the lunch counter, he handed it to Betty Sparks, the owner of the café.

The sexy redhead raced along behind him. “Listen, whoever you are—that’s my camera! You can’t just—”

“I just did. And you can have it back as soon as they’re gone.” Trace tipped his hat to the redhead and her friend, a tall, svelte brunette a year or two older. “Have a nice afternoon, ladies.”

Turning, he strolled out of the café.

“Did you see that? Oh, my God!” The brunette’s attention followed the man who strode down the sidewalk outside the window. “Who was that gorgeous hunk?”

Maggie O’Connell’s gaze jerked toward the window just as the tall, lanky cowboy in the white straw hat disappeared from view. “What are you talking about? That bastard just ruined my pictures. Bobby Jordane and his estranged wife? You know how much photos like that are worth?”

Maggie turned at the sound of a groan, saw the guy with the kinky hair—Lenny the Sphinx, his fans called him—help Bobby to his feet. Clyde the Mountain swayed upward until he was standing. Wordlessly, the small group staggered toward the door.

Maggie looked longingly at the lady who held her camera, but the older woman just shook her head.

Maggie sighed. She wouldn’t be getting photos of Bobby Jordane sprawled on the old plank floor, beaten to a pulp. Not today.

“I hate to remind you, but you aren’t the tabloid type,” said her best friend, Roxanne De Mers. “You didn’t come here to take pictures. You came for a late lunch with a friend. It just turned out to be a little more exciting than we planned.”

Roxy swung back to the window, watching the rap stars as they made their way to the long white limo waiting out front. “I wonder who he was.”

Maggie didn’t have to ask who her friend was talking about. The cowboy was, at the very least, impressive. Tall and lean, with wide shoulders and slim hips, he had thick, dark hair neatly trimmed, golden-brown eyes and a set of biceps that were impossible to miss.

Still, she didn’t appreciate his interference in her business. As the limo door closed, shutting the three men inside, she walked over to the counter to collect her camera, which the broad-hipped woman readily handed back to her.

“So who was he?” Maggie asked, nodding toward the window. “The Lone Ranger out there…what was his name?”

“You a reporter?”

“I’m a photographer. Mostly I do outdoor shots. I just saw an opportunity and took it—or tried to.”

“Sorry it didn’t pan out.”

“Me, too. I can always use a little extra money.”

“Name’s Betty Sparks,” the woman said. “Me and my husband, Bill, own this place.”

“Nice to meet you, Betty. I’m Maggie O’Connell. You make a great burger.”

“Thanks.”

The woman, who was in her late fifties, with a cap of short, curly gray hair, tipped her head toward the door. “His name’s Trace Rawlins. Owns Atlas Security. He’s a private investigator.”

Walking up beside Maggie, Roxanne sighed dramatically, a hand over her heart. “I think I’m in love.”

“The redhead’s got a better chance,” Betty said. “Trace has a weakness for ’em.”

“No, thanks. I don’t do cowboys.”

Betty chuckled. “If I was twenty years younger, I’d dye my hair.”

Maggie laughed. “How much do we owe you?” She walked over to the purse hanging on the back of her wooden chair and started digging for her wallet.

“On the house,” Betty said. “It’s the least I can do.”

Maggie smiled. “Thanks.”

“You new in the neighborhood?”

She nodded. “I just bought one of those town houses they built a few blocks away. Vaulted ceiling upstairs. Good north light, great place to work, you know?”

“Welcome, then. Maybe we’ll see you again.”

“If it’s always this much fun in here,” Roxanne said, “I’m sure you will.”

Betty just laughed.

Maggie put her Nikon back in its case and slung the straps of the camera bag and her purse over her shoulder. Roxanne tossed a couple bills on the table for a tip, and the two walked out the door.

“You know that trouble you been having?” Roxy said.

Maggie paused. “What about it?”

“That cowboy…he’s in the security business and he’s an investigator. He might be able to help you.”

Maggie started to argue, to say she didn’t need any help. Then she thought of the way Trace Rawlins had handled those three men. “I hope it doesn’t come to something like that.”

But it might and both of them knew it. For more than a month, someone had been following her, phoning her and hanging up, leaving messages on the windshield of her car. So far it hadn’t been more than that, but it was frightening just the same.

When she got home, she was going to look up the number for Atlas Security.

And write it down beside Trace Rawlins’s name.

Trace returned to the Atlas Security office on Times Street. He lived in a house in the University District not far away, a place with a yard for Rowdy, his black-and-white border collie, with big shady trees and an old-fashioned, covered front porch. When his dad died, Trace had inherited the house along with the business, a company his father had started when he first got out of the army.

Seth Rawlins had been a Ranger, a tough son of a bitch. Following in his footsteps, Trace had also enlisted and become a Ranger, figuring on a career in the military. Then six years ago, his dad had been killed in a car accident and Trace had come home to take over the business as he knew his father would have wished.

He slowed his dark green Jeep Grand Cherokee, pulled into the parking area in front of his office and turned off the engine. Recently, he had purchased the two-story brick structure—or rather, he and the bank owned it together until he paid off the mortgage. Which, since his profits were up and he was making double payments, he hoped wouldn’t take too long.

In the years since he’d taken over his father’s business, he had doubled the size of the company and opened a branch in Dallas. As a kid, with his dad gone much of the time, he had been raised on his grandfather’s ranch, a place where hard work was expected of a man. Trace still owned the ranch, but it was leased out to a cattle company now. He only went out there once in a while, to check on the old house and the acreage he’d retained around it, but he always enjoyed the time he spent in the country.

He wiped his feet on the mat in front of the office door and stepped inside. The walls were painted dark green and the place was furnished simply, with oak desks for his staff and oak furniture in the waiting area. Framed photos of cattle grazing in the pastures on the ranch hung on the walls.

He looked over to the reception area. “Hey, Annie, what’s up?”

Seated behind her desk, his office manager, Annie Mayberry, glanced up from typing on her computer.

“You got a couple of calls, nothing too exciting.” Annie was in her sixties, with frizzy gray hair dyed blond, and a rounded figure from the doughnuts she loved to eat in the morning.

“Maybe you could give me a hint,” Trace drawled.

She pulled off her reading glasses. “You got a call from Evan Schofield. He says Bobby Jordane is threatening to sue you for assault. Evan says not to worry about it. Bobby couldn’t stand for anyone to find out he got his—I’m quoting here—‘ass whipped’ the way he did.”

Trace chuckled, but Annie’s penciled eyebrows went up. “So you got in a fight with Bobby Jordane?” Disapproval rang in her voice. “I thought you’d outgrown that kind of thing.” Annie had worked for his father before Trace had taken over. She had mothered Seth Rawlins, who had lost his wife when Trace was born, then mothered Trace, since he didn’t have one.

“It wasn’t exactly a fight. More like a discussion with fists. Mostly mine.” Absently, he rubbed his bruised knuckles.

“You know you’re getting way too old for that rough stuff.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She was a small woman, but feisty. She didn’t take guff from anyone, including him, and that was exactly the way he wanted it. “What else have you got?”

“The Special Olympics called looking for a donation. I phoned the bookkeeper, told her to send them a check.”

“Good. What else?”

“Marvin’s Boat Repair called. Joe says he’s finished working on your engine. Ranger’s Lady’s running like a top.”

Trace nodded. “I think I’ll go down to Kemah for the weekend.” As often as he could manage, Trace made the forty-mile trip to where he docked his thirty-eight-foot sailboat. He loved being out on the water. There were times he wondered if being a SEAL wouldn’t have been a better fit than being a Ranger. But then he wouldn’t have met Dev Raines and Johnnie Riggs, two of his closest friends, and guys like Jake Cantrell.

“Jake called,” Annie said as if she read his thoughts, which she seemed to have a knack for doing. “He’s taking a job down in Mexico for a while. He’ll be gone at least a couple of weeks, maybe more.”

Jake had come to Houston with Trace after they’d finished a rescue mission with Dev and Johnnie that took them into Mexico. Cantrell, a former marine, mostly freelanced, hiring himself out as a bodyguard for executives who worked for big corporations. He had worked in the Middle East but specialized in South America. Jake did pretty much anything that wasn’t illegal and paid him plenty of money.

“That it?”

Annie handed over three more messages. “One’s a potential client. You’ll need to call him back. And Hewitt Sommerset called.” He was CEO of Sommerset Industries. “He wants to talk to you about that report you just finished.”

Hewitt believed one of his employees was embezzling funds. The surveillance equipment Atlas installed had proved he was right.

“I’ll call him right now.”

“The third message is from Carly. If I were you, I’d lose that one.”

He scowled, stared down at his ex-wife’s name scrolled on the paper. “Anything important?”

“The usual. Said she just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.”

Trace crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash can beside Annie’s desk. For some strange reason he was a magnet for needy women. It was no surprise he had married one. He’d been divorced from Carly nearly four years, something the petite redhead had a way of forgetting.

Trace walked past Annie’s desk into the main office area. Sol Greenway was working away at one of his three computers. At twenty-two, Sol was Atlas’s youngest employee and a near genius when it came to electronics. Sol handled background security checks, security problems, information retrieval, online forensic services, and just about anything else that had to do with computers.

In the middle of the office, Ben Slocum and Alex Justice, both freelance investigators, sat behind their desks. Ben had his cell phone pressed against his ear. Alex was cleaning his Glock 9 mm.

“How’d it go with Arnold Peters?” Trace asked Alex.

“I took him the photos. His wife was seeing some oversexed football player. Peters took one look, broke down and cried like a baby.”

“Why the hell do they hire us? They say they want the truth, but what they really want is for us to tell them they’re wrong and everything at home is just peachy.”

Alex’s grin cut a dimple into his cheek. “Far as I’m concerned, the best thing to do is stay single.”

Trace thought of Carly and the trail of men she’d ushered in and out of his house while they were married. “You can say that again.”

Continuing on, he went into his office and closed the door. He needed to return Hewitt’s call. The investigation was over, but Trace liked the guy and knew Hewitt was taking the information hard. The embezzler was his son-in-law.

Trace had a few other calls to make, but he didn’t personally handle as many cases as he used to. These days, he could pick and choose, and since the weekend was coming up, he would probably give anything new to Ben or Alex.

Trace imagined himself stretching out on the deck of the Ranger’s Lady in the warm Texas sun, hands behind his head and catching a few rays.

He smiled.

Sounded like the perfect plan.

Two

Maggie O’Connell walked out of her newly purchased town house and headed for her red Ford Escape hybrid parked in front. She loved the car, which got over thirty miles to the gallon, loved the room in the back for the cameras, tripods, meters, lights and miscellaneous equipment she used in her work.

At twenty-eight, Maggie had achieved an amazing amount of success as a photographer. What had started as a hobby while she went to college as an art major on a partial scholarship had ended up a career.

Part of it was luck, Maggie admitted. After graduation from the University of Houston, she had managed to snag a part-time job as an assistant to Roger Weller, a renowned Texas photographer—work that gave her an invaluable education in the field and also time to shoot the outdoor scenes that had become her trademark.

Weller helped her get her first gallery exhibition, which was surprisingly well received. Several more shows followed and her clientele grew. Now her photos hung in some of the most prestigious galleries in Houston, Dallas and Austin.

Her mind on her upcoming show at the Twin Oaks Gallery and the photos she intended to shoot that afternoon, Maggie had almost reached her car when she jerked to a shuddering halt. Setting her camera bag at her feet, she reached a shaking hand toward the scrap of paper pinned beneath the windshield wiper. Very carefully pulling it free, she began to read the message.

My precious Maggie,

How long before our destinies are fulfilled? When will you understand that your fate is entwined with mine and I am the only one who can give you the peace you need?

Maggie glanced frantically around. Only two other cars were parked in front of the six recently completed town house units where she lived, a Toyota Camry and a Chevy Camaro. Both vehicles were empty. The breeze ruffled the leaves on the freshly planted shrubs in the flower beds out front, and a couple of teenagers rolled by on their bicycles. No one who looked like he might have left the note.

She stared down at the torn slip of rough brown paper, which matched the two others she had already received. She had hoped, after moving into the condo two weeks ago, that whoever had been leaving the creepy messages would stop.

She hoisted her camera bag over her shoulder, holding the note with just two fingers in case the man had left prints. She scanned the lot once more for anyone who seemed out of place, but no one was there.

Maggie hurried back inside her town house, the paper fluttering in her hand, her stomach a little queasy. Easing her camera bag to the floor, she closed the front door and leaned against it. After couple of steadying breaths, she opened her purse and dug out her cell phone and pulled up her best friend’s name.

She hit the send button, and with every unanswered ring, her anxiety grew.

Roxanne finally picked up.

“Roxy? Rox, it’s Maggie. I—I got another note. It was under the wiper blade on my car.”

Her friend softly cursed. “Where are you?”

“I’m back inside my house. I looked around the parking lot. No one was there.”

“Listen to me, Maggie. You need to take that note to the police. What was the name of that police lieutenant you talked to before?”

“Bryson. But he isn’t going to help me. He doesn’t believe me. That isn’t going to change.”

“It might. You have this note and the two you got before.”

“I didn’t keep the first one. I thought it was just a prank.”

But it wasn’t really a matter of having the notes as proof. It wasn’t a matter of the police believing her. The cops were punishing her for a crime she had committed years ago.

A crime she was indeed guilty of committing.

“I won’t go back there,” she said. “I won’t be humiliated that way again.”

A long pause ensued. Roxanne was one of the few people who knew that as a teenager, Maggie had falsely accused the high school quarterback of rape.

At sixteen, she’d been stupid and irresponsible. The truth of it was she’d had sex that night with Josh Varner, though it certainly wasn’t rape. She had encouraged the handsome football player, not fought him, but she’d been frightened of her dad’s reaction when he found out.

“All right,” Roxanne finally said, “if you won’t go to the police, go see that private detective, the guy who runs Atlas Security.”

“Who, Rawlins?”

“You have to do something to protect yourself, Maggie. You don’t know how far this guy might be willing to go. Maybe Trace Rawlins can help.”

Maggie didn’t like it. The cowboy seemed cocky and far too self-assured. Worse yet, she didn’t like the jolt of attraction she’d felt when he looked at her.

But she didn’t like the snide remarks and sideways glances she had gotten at the police station, either.

Josh Varner was the son of a Houston police officer who was now a captain in the vice squad. Hoyt Varner had a score to settle for the unfair trouble she had caused his son years ago.

In a way Maggie didn’t blame him.

“If you won’t call him, I will,” Roxanne said from the other end of the phone, jarring her back to the moment.

“All right, all right, I’ll call.”

“You want me to come over?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I was just on my way to the grocery store, but I guess that can wait.”

“Yeah, I guess it can.”

Maggie ignored the sarcasm.

“Call me after you talk to him,” Roxanne said.

“I will.”

“Call him right now. Promise me.”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

Roxanne signed off and Maggie hung up the phone. She glanced around the town house, which was still stacked with boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked. Walking over to the breakfast bar separating the living room from the kitchen, she picked up the address book lying on the counter next to the phone and flipped it open.

On a yellow sticky note pressed inside the vinyl cover, she had printed the name Atlas Security. The address on Times Street was there, along with the company phone number and Trace Rawlins’s name.

She stared at the yellow square of paper, then snatched it out of the address book. The office was in the University District, not that far away. Picking up the People magazine she had been reading while she drank her coffee that morning, she very carefully laid the note from her windshield inside the cover and closed it. With the yellow sticky note in hand, she grabbed her purse and headed back to her car.

As she crossed the lot, she scanned the area for anyone who might be watching, but whoever had left the note was gone. Maggie climbed into her little SUV and cranked the engine. As it began to purr, she shifted into gear and drove out of the lot, searching to the right and left, but seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

It didn’t take long to find the brick building with the neatly printed Atlas Security sign on the front. Maggie parked the Escape, picked the magazine up off the passenger seat and got out of the car. She paused when she reached the front door.

Maybe Trace Rawlins wouldn’t help her. Maybe just like everything else she had done in her life, she would have to find a way to handle this alone.

She drew in a shaky breath, thinking maybe this time money would solve the problem. Maybe—for a price—she could find someone willing to help.

Trace reached for his coffee mug and realized his coffee had grown cold. Seated in the chair behind his desk, he’d been going over some upgrades he wanted to install in the alarm system in the library at Rice University, one of the company’s longtime clients. He looked up at the sound of Annie’s voice.

“Someone here to see you,” the older woman said. She tucked the yellow pencil in her hand above an ear. “Her name’s Maggie O’Connell.”

“O’Connell. Doesn’t sound familiar. She say what she wanted?” He had been hoping to leave for home within the hour, pack up his gear and his dog and head for the shore.

“She didn’t say, but you’d better watch out.” Annie didn’t bother to hide her grin. “She’s a redhead.”

He ignored a trickle of irritation. Annie knew his penchant for fiery-haired women and the trouble more than one of them had caused him over the years. And she didn’t hesitate to goad him about it.

On the other hand… “Send her on in.”

He stood up as the lady walked through the door. Five-four at most, slender yet curvy in all the right places. Once he got past the great body in snug jeans and a T-shirt with a Kodak ad on the front that read A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words, he recognized her in a heartbeat.

The photographer he had clashed with three days ago in the Texas Café.

“Well, we meet again,” he drawled. “I hope you aren’t here because Betty wouldn’t give you back your camera.”

“Betty gave it back. She seemed like a very nice woman.”

He thought of the scene at the café, the sizzling temper the redhead had unleashed when he had deleted her photos, and amusement touched his lips. “What can I do for you, Ms. …O’Connell, was it?”

“That’s right. After our little…disagreement, Betty mentioned you were a private investigator.”

“That I am. You need something investigated?”

“Actually, I do.”

He motioned for her to take a seat in one of the two dark brown leather chairs opposite his big oak desk, and sat back down himself. “Why don’t you tell me how I can help you?”

She opened the People magazine he hadn’t noticed she carried, being distracted by her nicely rounded breasts and shapely little behind. And there was all that glorious red hair.

With the magazine nestled in her lap, she opened the first page, then used the tips of her fingers to pick up a piece of brown paper that looked as if it had been torn from a grocery sack. Reaching over, she set it on his desk.

“Someone’s been leaving notes like this on my car. This is the third one I’ve found. Whoever is doing it is beginning to scare me. I thought maybe I could hire you to find out who it is and make him stop.”

Trace rose from his chair, leaned over and turned the paper around to face him, being as careful as she had been. If there were fingerprints on the note, he didn’t want to smudge them.

My precious Maggie,

How long before our destinies are fulfilled? When will you understand that your fate is entwined with mine and I am the only one who can give you the peace you need?

He didn’t like the tone. He could understand why the lady might find the notes upsetting.

He sat back down in his chair. “You need to call the police, Ms. O’Connell. They’ll make a report of the incidents and keep an eye out in your neighborhood for whoever may be leaving these.”

“I’ve been to the police. It hasn’t done any good. I want to know who this is and I want him to stop.”

“And you think I can do that for you?”

“I saw the way you handled those three men. I imagine you could take care of this guy if you wanted to.”

“I don’t assault people for a living. That isn’t my job. On the other hand, if my client is in danger, sometimes steps have to be taken.”

She seemed to mull that over. “I guess what I’m saying is I’d like to hire you. Your receptionist told me what you charge, and that would be fine. If I’m your client and something happens, you would be obliged to protect me.”

His gaze ran over her, the smooth skin and stubborn jaw, the big green, troubled eyes, the red hair curling softly around her shoulders.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll need to see the other notes before I decide.”

She bit her bottom lip. She wore peach-colored lipstick and her mouth was full and perfectly curved. He wasn’t generally this taken with a woman, at least not at first glance. But there was something about her… He told himself it was just that damned red hair.

“Actually, I only have one.”

“One?” he repeated, having lost track of the conversation.

“One of the other two notes. I threw the first one away. I thought it was a joke. I should have brought the second note with me. I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to get here, to talk to you, see if you could help.”

She was worried, he could tell, maybe even a little frightened. She set her purse in her lap, then unconsciously twisted the strap one way and then another.

“As I said, I’d like to see the other note.”

She rose from her chair. “I’ll get it for you right now. My condo isn’t that far away.”

Trace stood as well. “I’d rather come with you. I can see where you live, take a look at the neighborhood, see where your car was parked when the notes were left.”

“The first one was left on my car before I moved out of my apartment. It’s about a mile or so away from where I live now. But I think that’s a good idea.”

She started for the door, but he caught her arm. “I’ll drive. My car’s right out front.” He grabbed the white straw hat he had exchanged for his usual brown felt Stetson as the weather began to warm, and led her through the reception area. Opening the door, he waited while she walked outside.

“The Jeep Cherokee,” he said, and one of her burnished eyebrows went up. “What? You were expecting a pickup?”

She shrugged, smiled. “You’re a cowboy. I thought all you guys were pickup men.”

He chuckled, thinking of the Joe Diffie song and wishing at the moment he owned one. “’Fraid I only drive one when I’m out at the ranch.” He helped her into the vehicle and closed the door, rounded the hood and slid in behind the wheel.

She settled back and snapped her seat belt. “You have a ranch?”

“Technically, yes. The place belonged to my grandfather. My dad sold half when Granddad died and used the money to go into the security business. The land that’s left is leased to a company that raises Black Angus beef. I kept the old ranch house and fifty acres around it. I pretty much grew up there as a kid. I stop by every once in a while just to keep an eye on things.”

“The photos in your office…the rolling fields with the grazing cattle. Those were taken on the ranch?”

“Not by me, but yes. Gabe Raines, a friend of mine from Dallas, took them when we were out there together. I liked them so had them blown up and framed.”

“They’re very good.”

“I’ll tell him you said so.” Gabriel Raines was Dev Raines’s brother, one of his closest friends. They had worked together last year when Gabe was having trouble with an arsonist. Gabe was in construction. Taking pictures was just a hobby, but Gabe seemed to have a good eye.

They drove away from the office, leaving the small business district behind, moving along Kirby Street through a neighborhood of stately older homes and smaller, even older residences like the one in which he lived. Big sycamore trees overhung the streets, shading the asphalt. Manicured lawns climbed from the curb to the front of each house.

Heading south at Maggie’s direction, they passed Holcomb Street, wound around a bit, eventually turned onto Broadmoor and into a six-unit town house development that looked very new. The units were nicely constructed, utilizing the land without destroying too many trees. The buildings, beige with redbrick trim, had a vaulted roofline, and each unit had its own brick chimney.

“That one’s mine. The one on the end, unit A.”

He pulled into a space Maggie indicated in front of a row of matching two-story dwellings. “This your usual parking spot?”

She nodded. “There’s a guest space on the right. I keep my car in the garage at night.”

They got out of the car and Maggie led him toward the door of her unit. He liked the way she moved, sexy and confident. He liked the way she looked, too, with that little spray of freckles across her forehead and the tip of her nose.

His groin tightened. His instincts were warning him to stay away from temptation, and Maggie O’Connell was certainly that. He would give the case to Alex or Ben, he told himself. As soon as he had a little more information.

She unlocked the door and Trace followed her in. “I’ll get the note,” Maggie said. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her climb the stairs in the entry, admiring the firmness of the muscles in her hips and thighs. The lady stayed in shape, it was clear. He liked that in a woman, since he believed in staying fit himself.

As she disappeared, he glanced around the condo, which was almost empty. Just a beige, floral-print sofa and matching chair in the living room, a maple coffee table and a couple brass lamps, one of them sitting on the floor. Cardboard boxes were stacked everywhere. There was a dining table in an area off the living room. She had a laptop set up there. Good to know she was computer literate.

Maggie returned with the note, carrying it gingerly but not as carefully. “I handled it when I first got it. Fingerprints never occurred to me until today.” She walked to the breakfast counter and laid the note on the gold-flecked white granite top. Trace moved it a little so he could read the words.

Precious Maggie,

Such a delight you are. Soon you will come to me. Soon you will understand we are meant to be together.

There it was again, that odd, eerie tone. Trace couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it meant, but he didn’t like it. He placed the second note beside the first, compared the hand-printed letters. Bold. Well formed. No misspelled words.

Maggie looked up at him. “Will you help me?”

Give the case to Alex, a little voice said.

A muscle tightened in Trace’s cheek. Alex Justice, with his good looks and dimples… Trace glanced down at Maggie and desire curled through him. Her eyes were on his, green and worried. A surge of protectiveness overrode his good sense.

So she was a redhead. So what? So what if he already felt a strong attraction to her? It didn’t mean a thing. She could be in serious trouble and she needed his help.

“You have any idea who might have written these?” he asked.

Maggie shook her head. “I’ve tried to think. It doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

“Educated. Forceful. Older, maybe. This is not some bum off the street.”

“No, I don’t think so, either.”

“If I’m going to find this guy, you’re going to have to help me. I’ll need to know things about you. Things about your past, about your work. Some of it fairly personal. If you’re willing to tell me what I need to know, I’ll help you.”

He watched the uncertainty move across her face. Unlike his ex-wife, talking about herself didn’t seem to be high on Maggie’s agenda.

“I’ll tell you as much as I can,” she said, which wasn’t the answer he wanted. He guessed for now it would have to do.

“All right, Maggie O’Connell. If we’re going to get this done, we might as well get to it.”

Three

“Before we get started,” Trace said, “I need to go out to my car. I’ll be right back.”

Maggie walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa in front of the empty brick hearth, waiting while he disappeared outside, then returned carrying a leather briefcase. He sat down in the floral-print chair at the end of the sofa, took off his cowboy hat and rested it on the padded arm. He was dressed in sharply creased jeans, a short-sleeved white Western shirt with pearl snaps, and a pair of freshly polished, plain brown cowboy boots.

His hair was a dark mink-brown, but in the sunlight streaming through the window, little streaks of gold wound through the ends. The man was broad-shouldered, lean and fit, but she had already discovered that during his run-in with Bobby Jordane in the Texas Café.

She had noticed the gold in Trace Rawlins’s brown eyes, his straight nose and white teeth. Now she noticed the sexy, sensual curve of his mouth, and found herself staring more than once. He was a good-looking man. But that and the fact he knew how to use his fists were all she really knew about him.

After the way he had bullied her in the café, she wasn’t even sure she liked him.

The brass latch on his briefcase clicked open and Trace took out a state-of-the-art recorder, a Montblanc pen and a yellow legal pad.

“Let’s start with the present and work backward,” he said, turning on the recorder. “You’re a photographer. Is that a hobby or what you do for a living?”

She smiled. “I’m lucky. I’m not rich, but I make a very good living doing the work I love.”

Trace glanced at the barren white walls of the town house.

“My pictures are all still in boxes,” Maggie explained in answer to his silent question. “I’m working on a photo project that’s been keeping me really busy. I’m unpacking a little at a time.”

“What kind of project?”

“A coffee-table book. It’s called The Sea. It’s set around the ocean and the different kinds of things people do that involve the sea—jobs, recreation, that kind of thing.”

His gaze sharpened with interest. When he looked at her with that direct way of his, her skin felt warm. “Why did you pick that subject?”

“I love the ocean. I do mostly outdoor photography. I love shooting any kind of landscapes, but the sea has my heart.”

His eyes gleamed and tiny lines appeared at the corners. She wondered if they were laugh lines or life lines, or just a reflection of the time he spent out-of-doors.

“I’d love to see some of your work,” he said.

Maggie smiled. “I guess I’d better get busy and unpack those boxes.”

They talked about her business a little more, about the people she dealt with in the galleries where her photos were displayed, and people she might have encountered during her shows.

“Do you keep a list of your clients?”

“As much as I can. I enter them into a file on my computer.”

“Anyone in particular who’s bought an extraordinary amount of your work?”

“Not that I can think of. I have clients who’ve purchased three or four pieces. That’s not that uncommon.” Maggie sighed. “As I said, the notes don’t strike any sort of chord. I can’t imagine I know this person.”

“Maybe you don’t. Starting tomorrow, I’m going to put a tail on you for a couple of days. It’ll be me or a guy who works for me named Rex Westcott. I’ll show you his picture, so if you happen to spot him, you’ll know he’s not the guy we’re after. We’ll keep tabs on you, watch for anyone who might be following you.”

She felt a trickle of relief. “All right.”

“Of course, that might not be the way he operates. Obviously, he knows where you live. He might know a whole lot more.”

Maggie didn’t like the sound of that. It was one of the reasons she stayed away from social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter.

Trace asked her more questions about roommates at school, old boyfriends, someone she might have jilted.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t date that often. I had a boyfriend when I went to college. We were pretty serious for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

“What was his name?”

“Michael Irving.”

“Anyone else?”

She hated to mention David, since she had been the one at fault for the breakup, and she didn’t want to cause him any more trouble.

“Maggie?”

She released a breath, determined to reveal as little as possible. “I went out with an attorney named David Lyons for a while. We lived together a couple of months.”

“Bad breakup?”

His eyes were on hers. The man didn’t miss a thing. “Pretty bad. It was my fault. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I did.”

“When did it end?”

“First of April, two years ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“I haven’t seen him. I heard he was dating someone.”

Trace stopped making notes and looked at her. There was something in those golden-brown eyes that seemed to see more than she wanted.

“What about now?” he asked. “Are you involved with anyone at the moment?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’ve been way too busy.” She wondered if there might be something personal in the question. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “And I really don’t like the dating scene. I suppose eventually I’d like to meet someone, but not right now. I’ve got my career to think about. I’m happy the way I am.”

He studied her as if he wasn’t sure he believed her. She wondered if he was one of those men who thought every woman was desperate to find a husband. Or maybe exactly the opposite. That she was just another faithless female concerned with only herself.

“It’ll take some time to check all this out,” he said. “The thing is, you might know this person and not realize it. He—or she—could be using this odd style of writing so you won’t figure out who it is.”

She frowned. “You don’t actually think this could be a woman?”

“Unless your sexual preferences go both ways, probably not.”

She smiled. “I’m boringly heterosexual.”

His eyes seemed to darken. Maggie felt a warm, unwelcome stirring in the pit of her stomach, and inwardly cursed her bad luck. An attraction to Trace Rawlins was the last thing she wanted.

“The handwriting looks masculine,” Trace continued, “but there definitely are women stalkers. Jealousy over a past relationship with a man, or your success as a photographer. That kind of thing.”

He kept asking questions, moving her backward in time. Thinking about the incident with Josh Varner, she began to grow more and more uneasy.

“Tell me about your family,” Trace said, making notes now and again.

“My mom and dad divorced when I was four. Mom moved back to Florida where she was raised, remarried not long after and had another kid. I stayed here and lived with my dad.”

“He still alive?”

“He passed away a couple of years ago.”

“I lost mine a while back. I still miss him.”

Maggie made no comment. Her dad had been demanding and a tough disciplinarian, but she had loved him and still missed him.

“How about high school? Anything stand out? Any old grudges that might blossom years later?”

She forced her gaze to remain on his face. No way was she telling him about Josh Varner. Josh didn’t even live in Texas anymore. He had gone to UCLA on a scholarship and then taken a job in Seattle with Microsoft. She’d heard he made barrels of money.

And if he wrote her a message, it wouldn’t sound anything like the words on the notes she had received.

“I, um, can’t think of anything. Besides, if it was something from high school, why would the person wait all these years?”

Trace’s pen stopped moving. “Usually something happens, an event of some kind. A stressor, it’s called. A trigger that digs up old memories, sometimes twists them around in a weird direction.”

She shook her head. “I really can’t think of anything.” At least nothing that had recently occurred. Still, she was glad he looked down just then to write another note. She had always been an unconvincing liar.

“It may well be that this guy has seen you somewhere but the two of you have never met. He could be fixated on you for no good reason other than the color of your hair, or that you look like someone he once knew.”

A little chill ran through her. “I see.”

Trace reached over and squeezed her hand. “Look, we’re going to catch this guy. There are very tough laws against stalking.”

She nodded. Just his light touch reassured her. Maybe this was a man she could count on, a man who could make things turn out all right.

They talked awhile longer, but he didn’t bring up her past again. If something happened that involved her Great Shame, as she thought of it, she would tell him. If she did, she knew the look she would see on his face. At the moment, she just couldn’t handle it.

Trace rose effortlessly from his chair, to tower over her on his long legs. “On the way back to the office, you can show me where you lived when you got the first note.” He packed up his stuff, closed the briefcase, clamped on his cowboy hat. “I’d like to take the notes,” he said, “check them for prints.”

“All right.”

Trace bagged the notes and she led him to the entry.

“You keep your doors and windows locked?”

“I’m pretty good about it.”

His glance was hard and direct. “You be better than pretty good. You be damned good.”

She didn’t like his attitude. On the other hand, he was probably right. Even in a good neighborhood, the crime rate in Houston was high.

“I’ll keep the doors locked.”

“Good girl. Let’s go.”

She felt his hand at the small of her back, big and warm as he guided her out of the house toward his Jeep, then opened the door and helped her climb in. They cruised by her old apartment. He stopped in front and made a thorough perusal of the area, then turned the Jeep around and headed back toward his office.

“Anyone in your old apartment building who might be interested in you in some way?”

“There’re only four units. A retired lady schoolteacher lives in one. There’s a single mother and her four-year-old son, and an older man in a wheelchair. The one I left is still vacant.”

“Looks like we can rule out the apartment residents.”

They reached his office and Trace walked her over to her car.

“Remember what I said about keeping your doors locked.”

“I will.”

As Maggie drove back to her town house, she couldn’t help thinking that in going to a private investigator she had done the right thing.

She didn’t like the attraction she felt, but it was only physical, nothing to really worry about. Trace was a handsome, incredibly masculine man, and she hadn’t been involved with anyone in years.

And she felt better knowing she had someone to help her.

Even if she had to pay for it.

Trace sat in front of his computer, staring at Maggie O’Connell’s webpage. The black background showed off a dozen photos of the Texas Hill Country, including the imported African game that roamed the grasslands, and a variety of magnificent sunsets that lured the viewer deeper into each scene.

On another page, there were shots of small towns and beaches along the coastline bordering the Gulf, and wonderful action photos of various power- and sailboats skimming over the water in Galveston Bay.

The colors were brilliant, the angles of the photos showed the subject to the very best advantage, and there was always something a little different, something intriguing about each picture. At the bottom of the page, information on the three galleries in Texas that carried limited-edition prints of Maggie’s work was listed, and a contact email address.

Trace searched through the dozens of other sites that popped up on Google when he referenced her name, and the more he searched, the more frustrated he became.

Damn, his client wasn’t just a good photographer, she was practically a celebrity. She was a well-known, well-respected artist whose work had been viewed by thousands of people.

And any one of them could be the person who was stalking her.

Trace leaned forward in his leather chair and punched the button on the recorder, listening again to his conversation with Maggie. When he finished, he reviewed the notes he had taken.

He went to work on her list of names, verifying what little information he had. Nothing turned up. Michael Irving and David Lyons both had webpages. Irving was a certified public accountant in Dallas. Lyons was a corporate lawyer in Houston with Holder Holder & Meeks.

It was after seven by the time Trace finished. The office was closed. Annie had left for the night and Alex and Ben were out working cases. Trace had decided to postpone his trip to the shore until next weekend, and had called Rex Westcott to start the tail on Maggie tomorrow morning. He had sent Rex’s photo to the email address she had given him: photolady@baytown.com.

Photolady. Looking at some of her work, he realized she was far more than that. He might have smiled, except that he didn’t like complications, and Maggie O’Connell was nothing but. Her life was complicated. The possibilities of who her stalker might be were endless.

And the unwanted attraction Trace felt for her only made matters worse.

He sighed as he rose from his chair, plucked his hat off the credenza behind his desk and prepared to leave. A knock on the front door caught his attention. He glanced at the clock, saw that another hour had passed and wondered who knew he would be there this late.

He settled his hat on his head and started for the front door, turned the lock and pulled it open.

“Good heavens, Trace,” said a familiar female voice, “where on earth have you been?” Carly Benson Rawlins stormed past him into the office, whirled and set her hands on her hips. “Why didn’t you return my calls? I needed you, Trace. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“Good evening, Carly. Why don’t you come on in?”

His sarcasm went unnoticed.

“How could you be so insensitive?” She was petite and voluptuous, with long, straight red hair that fell past her shoulders. She had the prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen. He cursed as he watched them fill with tears. “H-how could you ignore me like that?”

“You aren’t my wife anymore, Carly. I can ignore you whenever I want.”

She sniffed, tilted her head back to look up at him. “What if something had happened? What if I’d been in a car wreck or something?”

“Were you in a car wreck?”

“No, but I could have been. Did you see that newspaper article in the Chronicle this morning? That woman who drove down to the shore and never came back? Her parents are frantic. She was my age, Trace—twenty-nine years old and she just disappeared.”

“I saw it. The police think maybe she took off with her boyfriend or something.”

“Or maybe she was murdered.” Carly shuddered with feigned revulsion. “A woman needs a man to look out for her.” She smiled, her tears long forgotten, looped her arms around his neck and went up on her toes to look into his face. “You know I still love you, Trace. Sometimes I just need to know you’re still there for me.”

He took hold of her wrists and eased her back down on her feet. “Look, Carly. You aren’t in any sort of danger and you need to get on with your life. That’s what people do when they get divorced.”

“I never wanted a divorce and you know it.”

“No, but you wanted other men in your bed. That didn’t work for me.”

Her chin angled up. “You weren’t there, Trace. You were working all the time.”

“I was trying to build the business, trying to make a life for us. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you properly entertained.”

“It was all your fault and you know it.”

Maybe some of it was, but mostly he had just picked the wrong woman, as his friends had tried to warn him. Carly was wild and self-centered. She hadn’t been ready to settle down when he’d married her. She wasn’t ready now.

Still, he felt sorry for her. She wasn’t happy. He wasn’t sure she ever would be.

He turned her around and urged her gently toward the door. “We’ve been through all this before.” A thousand times, he added silently. “Things just didn’t work out, that’s all. Go home, Carly. Entertain yourself with someone else.”

She jerked to a halt at the door. “You’re cruel, Trace. Cruel and heartless.”

If anything, he was too soft when it came to women. Years ago, he had learned to control his temper. He had come to value his self-control. He’d been raised to treat a woman like a lady. He did his best to do just that.

“Good night, Carly,” he said gently, then waited as she stormed out the door. Trace watched her drive her little silver BMW sports car down the alley out of sight, and wondered which of her many admirers had bought it for her.

He lifted his hat, raked back his hair, then settled the hat a little lower across his forehead. He had no idea why his ex-wife continued to plague him. They were never right for each other, never should have married. They might have been in lust at one time, but they were never in love.

That same kind of attraction to a good-looking redhead had hit him several other times in his life. None of those times had ended well.

Trace thought of Maggie O’Connell and warned himself not to go down that road again.

Four

It was pitch-black in her upstairs bedroom. Only the night sounds of crickets and cicadas intruded into the darkness of the high-ceilinged room. Maggie tossed and turned beneath the lightweight down comforter, unable to sleep with so much on her mind. She needed to get the photos completed for her coffee-table book. And she had a show coming up. She had most of the pictures ready, but could use a few more for the exhibit.

She sighed into the darkness. She had so much to do. Aside from her work, she needed to unpack, try to make the town house more of a home. There wasn’t much furniture downstairs, and only a bed, two nightstands and a dresser in her bedroom, stuff she’d had for years.

She still had a few pieces to bring over from the apartment before the end of the month, when her lease was up, and some things she needed to buy, and of course her photos and some prized Ansel Adams pieces that needed to be hung on the walls. She wasn’t much of a decorator but she could do better than the way it looked now.

She punched her pillow, turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow was Saturday. She planned to drive down to Galveston, take some shots around the harbor. She needed to get up early. Which meant she had to get some sleep.

She closed her eyes, tried to clear her head.

That was when she heard it. The faint scraping of a chair against the ceramic tile floor in the kitchen. She listened, straining her ears. Was that the patio door sliding open? Was that a footstep she heard on the stairs? Her heart was pounding, thumping against her ribs. Her palms felt slick where she clenched the sheet. She thought of the notes she had received, wondered if the man who had written them was crazy enough to break into her home.

She listened again, trying to decide if she should call 911. The police would show up, she figured, even if they knew she was the caller. But as the seconds stretched into minutes, she realized the only sound she was hearing was the fear pumping through her veins.

When the noise didn’t come again, she began to relax. She had imagined the intruder. There was no one in the house. As Trace had insisted, she had carefully locked the doors.

She glanced at the digital clock beside the bed: 2:15. She lay there in silence, her ears focused to catch any noise out of the ordinary, but she didn’t hear anything more. The little button in the center of the bedroom doorknob was pushed. It wasn’t much of a lock, but it gave her some sense of security. At least she would know if someone was trying to get in.

She watched the clock, the numbers slipping past. At two thirty-five, she rolled out of bed. No other sounds had reached her. Maybe she had fallen asleep for an instant and dreamed the entire incident. Things like that had happened to her before.

Still, she had to know.

Reaching for the blue fleece robe tossed over the foot of the bed, she slipped her arms inside and tied the sash around her waist. After years of living in the Texas heat, she slept in the nude, but she always kept the robe handy in case there was some sort of emergency, like a fire, or just someone arriving unexpectedly at her door.

She listened again for a moment, heard nothing and quietly turned the knob. Easing the door open, she waited. Just the ticking of the antique clock that she planned to hang on the wall in the living room but hadn’t done yet. Sticking her head out in the hallway, she glanced both ways, but no lights were burning; nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

After tiptoeing down the hall, she slipped into her photo studio and grabbed a makeshift weapon—a unipod, the one-legged stand she sometimes used to steady her camera. She quietly retraced her steps with it clutched in both hands, and descended the stairs.

No movement. No sound. Maggie flipped on the light switch, illuminating the glass lamp hanging in the foyer, casting a bright glow partway into the living room.

Nothing.

The tension eased from her shoulders. She turned on the light in the kitchen, turned on a lamp in the living room, took a look around. She had imagined the entire episode—thank God.

It was the note. The notes were making her edgy and restless, sending her into a tailspin. She hoped Trace Rawlins would find the man who had been harassing her.

She moved through the house, making a brief inspection of the locks, finding them all secured. She turned off the brass lamp in the living room, then padded back to the kitchen. Her hand paused midway to the light switch as her eyes caught something sitting on the breakfast bar.

A cold chill swept through her. The only things there when she had gone to bed were the telephone, the old-fashioned answering machine she still used and the address book she kept beside them.

Her mouth went dry. She forced her feet to carry her to the counter. Her hand shook as she reached toward the small porcelain statuette sitting on top. It was no more than five inches high, a man in a black tuxedo dancing with a woman with upswept red hair wearing a long, flowing, pale green evening gown.

Maggie swallowed. Her gaze shot around the kitchen, but she had checked the rooms and the closets and found no one there. Picking up her address book with a shaking hand, she flicked it open. Trace Rawlins’s business card rested just inside.

Frantically, she dialed the cell number printed on the card, terrified that the man who had left the statue might be hiding in the house and she just hadn’t found him. With the phone pressed against her ear, she listened to the ringing on the other end of the line and prayed Trace Rawlins would answer.

The boat was running with the wind, Ranger’s Lady skimming over the surface of the frothy blue ocean. The early-spring air felt fresh and cool against his skin. Gulls screeched and turned over the top of the mast, circling the boat in search of food.

Trace was smiling, enjoying the perfect day, when Faith Hill’s sweet voice began to sing to him through his cell phone. In an instant, he was jolted awake, a habit from his days in the Rangers. His hand shot out and grabbed the phone off the bedside table, and he pressed it against his ear.

“Rawlins,” he rasped in a sleepy voice.

“Trace, it’s Maggie O’Connell.”

“Maggie?” Worry slid through him. He rolled to the side of the bed, swung his long legs over the side. “Maggie, what is it?”

“Someone…someone was in my house tonight. He left…left something for me on the counter.”

A chill ran down Trace’s spine. “Have you called the police?”

“I—I called you instead.”

His fingers tightened around the phone. “Are you sure he isn’t still there?”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“Not good enough. Hang up and call 911. I’m on my way.”

Trace hung up the phone, grabbed his jeans off the back of a chair and pulled them on without bothering with his briefs. After dragging a T-shirt over his head, he pulled on his boots and headed for the door. Sensing his urgency, Rowdy followed, but the dog was used to his master’s odd hours and didn’t make a fuss.

Trace’s shoulder holster hung on the hat rack beside the back door. He used a Beretta 9 mm semiauto when he carried, which he hadn’t needed to do lately. He slipped on the holster, snapped out the weapon and checked the load as he hurried outside toward his car.

It didn’t take long to reach Maggie’s town house. He was glad he had been there before. It was almost three in the morning, but the lights were on. As he strode up the walkway, he could see her through a small window over the sink in the kitchen, standing there in her bathrobe, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold.

No patrol car was in sight. Trace silently cursed the time it was taking them to get there. He knocked on the door. “Maggie? It’s Trace.”

She opened the door an instant later, her shoulders sagging with relief as he walked past her into the entry.

“Thank you for coming.”

He glanced around. “I thought the cops would be here by now.”

Her gaze strayed from his. “I, um, didn’t call them.”

Frustration tightened Trace’s jaw. “Why the hell not?”

“You were on your way. I took another look around. I’m sure he’s not here.”

Trace shook his head. “Dammit, Maggie.” Pulling the Beretta from its holster, he made a check of the rooms downstairs, the coat closet, the bedroom and bath. He made the same search upstairs, the master bedroom and bath, and the photo studio. Returning downstairs, he opened the door from the entry into the garage, flipped on the light and took the single step down.

Maggie’s Ford Escape sat in the garage. The door leading outside was locked. There was no sign of whoever had come into the house.

“I checked the doors and windows,” he told her as he returned to the kitchen. “They’re all locked. No broken latches, nothing. Any idea how he got in?”

“I don’t know.”

“Show me what he left you.”

She led him to the breakfast bar. “That.” She pointed toward the item on the counter. “It’s pretty innocuous, just a little porcelain statuette, but…”

“But it means something. At least to him.”

Trace examined the dancing couple, carefully painted by hand. Using a paper towel, he lifted the piece to examine it more closely, noting that the bottom was uneven, as if it had been attached to something, and broken off.

He set the statuette back on the breakfast bar. “Does it mean anything to you?”

Maggie shook her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It looks a little like one of those things you put on top of a wedding cake.”

“Yeah, but it isn’t. Check the bottom.” He showed her the uneven edges. “At one time, this was attached to something. Glued on, it looks like.”

“I have no idea why anyone would leave that here,” she said, her gaze still on the figurine. Her eyes were the same pale green as the woman’s dress, her hair the same fiery red. The porcelain figure meant something, all right, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Trace glanced around the town house. “Your locks are a joke. Tomorrow I’ll have my guys come over and install some decent ones, along with a security system.”

“They’re, uh, kind of expensive, aren’t they?”

For the first time, he smiled. “You’re a client. You get a special price. We’ll just do the basics—the windows and doors, a couple motion detectors.”

“I guess I don’t have much choice.”

He gently caught her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “We need to call the police, Maggie. Someone broke into your home. This isn’t the first problem you’ve had. You need to file a report, keep the cops in the loop.”

She looked away, studied her slender feet, showing beneath the hem of the robe, the pale peach polish on her toenails. Trace’s gaze followed hers and he found himself wondering how smooth her skin would feel, how responsive she would be if his hand moved up her thigh. He wondered what she was wearing beneath the robe, and felt himself harden inside his jeans.

Son of a bitch. He forced his attention back to her face, amazed that he had allowed his attraction to sidetrack his thoughts.

“What is it with you and the cops?” he asked. “You don’t have a record, do you?”

Her eyes widened. “No, I… No, of course not.”

But he thought that her face went a little pale. He pulled out his cell and dialed 911, and a few minutes later a white-and-blue patrol car rolled up. A Hispanic officer whose name tag read Gonzalez, and his slightly chubby, blond-haired partner, walked into the town house in response to the call.

The blond cop, Sandowski, searched the unit, while Gonzalez took Maggie’s statement, which briefly recapped the events of the night.

“So that’s it?” Gonzalez said, making a final note on his pad as she finished. “You heard a noise and found the statue on the counter?”

“That’s what happened, yes.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t noticed anything missing.”

He looked at Trace. “What about you? You got anything to add?”

Trace explained that he had come over after receiving Maggie’s call. “She was clearly upset. She’s been getting threatening messages left on her car, hang-up calls, that kind of thing.”

Sandowski returned from his search just then. “I checked the doors and windows. No sign of forced entry. Are you sure your cleaning lady or a friend didn’t leave the statue there? Maybe you just didn’t notice it before you went to bed.”

Maggie’s pretty lips thinned. “It wasn’t there.”

Gonzalez wrote something on his notepad. “We’ll take a look around outside before we leave. I suggest you check with friends, see if maybe one of them was playing a joke or something.”

“It wasn’t a joke,” Maggie said tightly.

The officers headed for the door. It was obvious they believed she had just overlooked the presence of the porcelain figurine.

Maggie had said the cops weren’t able to help her. Clearly, they weren’t convinced the threat against her was real. First thing in the morning, Trace would take the figurine down to his office, do a check for prints on it and the notes she’d received.

“Will you be able to sleep?” he asked once the police were gone.

“Probably not.” She raked soft red curls back from her face. Sleep-tousled, they teased her cheeks and shoulders. His fingers itched to touch them.

“You need to get some rest,” he said a little gruffly, thinking that under different circumstances he might have exactly the sleeping pill she needed. As it was, Maggie was his client, his responsibility. He had no intention of trying to seduce her.

He almost smiled. And he was pretty sure if he tried, his chances of success would be slim to none.

“I was planning to drive down to the shore tomorrow,” she said, “take some shots for my book. Now…I don’t know. …”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Trace said before he could stop himself. “Until you walked into my office, I was thinking of heading to Kemah for the weekend. I’ve got a boat docked there.”

One of her burnished eyebrows went up. “A cowboy who rides a boat instead of a horse?”

He smiled. “That’s me.”

“Kemah’s a charming little town. I’ve gotten some great pictures on the boardwalk.”

“Maybe we could drive down together. My men will be working here all day, installing the security system and changing the locks. You could get away from all that for a while and I could get in a little sailing.”

And he could take Rex’s place, keep an eye out, see if anyone followed them down.

Maggie looked at him with a combination of weariness and suspicion.

“I’ll drive,” he offered. “You can sleep on the way.”

“And you’ll bring me back tomorrow night?”

A cautious lady. In her situation that was good. “Unless you decide you’d rather stay and sleep aboard,” he couldn’t resist adding.

She sliced him a sideways glance. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”

Trace just smiled. “In case you haven’t noticed, it is morning, Maggie.”

Five

As soon as he got home, Trace stretched out on the overstuffed sofa in his living room still wearing his jeans and boots. Rowdy curled up on the beige carpet next to the sofa, and both of them fell asleep. Trace slept like a rock till six, then made himself some coffee, loaded his gear in the back of the Jeep and drove down to the office.

There was a fingerprint kit in the back room. He dusted the notes for prints, but as he had figured, the rough brown paper yielded nothing.

He held more hope for the little porcelain statuette, but after careful examination and dusting, it appeared the figurine had been wiped clean. Which in itself revealed something about Maggie’s stalker.

Whoever it was was careful. Very careful. No sign of forced entry. No footprints that Trace had seen. He would bet he could dust the whole condo and no prints would turn up. Since the town house had recently been for sale, it wouldn’t have been difficult for the intruder to get a key. Trace would talk to the Realtors who’d handled the listing and sale, see what might come up.

His Jeep was loaded and ready. The office wasn’t officially open on weekends, but Ben, Alex and Sol were usually in and out. Annie came in whenever she needed to play catch-up. The alarm system installers worked for JDT Security Systems, the company that handled all the Atlas jobs. Trace phoned Ed Wilcox and got the guys going on what would be an overtime job at Maggie’s.

By nine he was finished and heading back to the town house. He wanted to interview the residents in the other five units, see if anyone had heard or seen anything last night.

As he drove toward Broadmoor, he found himself smiling. He was working, sort of, providing a protection detail for his client—not that he planned to charge her for a trip to the shore. But the better part of the bargain was the day he would be spending at sea, sailing with the pretty little redhead on his boat in Galveston Bay.

Maggie was surprised she had agreed to the trip. But as Trace had said, the security people would be working in the town house all day, and she really needed to take some more pictures. She wanted to finish the coffee-table book and if she got lucky, she could get a few more shots for her show at the Twin Oaks Gallery in a couple weeks.

After Trace left in the wee hours of the morning, Maggie had returned upstairs and managed to get a couple hours of sleep. But it wasn’t nearly enough. As she dressed in a pair of cropped navy blue pants, a red-striped top and sandals, she yawned, feeling groggy and out of sorts. Coffee helped but not that much. At least the weather was good. Still cool, but no longer cold, the air not too humid.

Trace returned at ten, his Cherokee loaded with gear. “You ready?” he asked when she opened the door.

“Just about.” She looked down at the black-and-white dog standing next to him on her doorstep.

“That’s Rowdy,” he said. “Rowdy, this is Maggie.”

Her eyes widened when the animal barked.

“Hi, Rowdy,” she said, because he seemed to demand a greeting. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

He barked again.

She bit back a laugh. “I just need to load my camera gear.” She turned to collect the Nikon D3S sitting in its case in the entry. It was equipped with a fantastic Tamron 28-300 lens she had purchased a few weeks back. The new equipment had set her back nearly seven thousand dollars, but in her line of work, it was an essential investment.

Trace walked past her, gently elbowing her aside when she reached for the bag, and hoisted the strap over one of his wide shoulders.

“I’m used to carrying my own equipment,” she said.

“I’m sure you are.” But he kept on walking, hauling the stuff out to his Jeep and loading it into the backseat.

“I hope you aren’t charging me extra for that,” she grumbled as she carried her yellow canvas swim bag out to the car.

He grinned, a flash of white in a suntanned face so handsome it made her breath catch. An amazing face, she thought, with those hard, sculpted features and intense, whiskey-brown eyes, so warm and direct they sent a little quiver into her stomach.

“No extra charge,” he said, sliding her tripod onto the seat. “Not today.”

She watched the flex of those incredible biceps she had noticed at the Texas Café, and told herself there was nothing wrong with being physically attracted to a man. After all, she was a young, fully mature woman, though she rarely gave in to those sorts of urges.

“Oh, I almost forgot the sandwiches.”

He smiled. “Sandwiches, huh? I like the way you think. I’m hungry already.”

Maggie ran back inside and grabbed the small cooler she had filled with ham-and-cheese sandwiches on fresh rye bread, and a couple Diet Cokes. Mr. He-man probably drank the real thing, but today, diet would have to do.

Trace and Rowdy walked to the rear of the Jeep. “Load up,” he said, and the dog hopped onto the tailgate, went inside and lay down on his bed. Trace left the rear window rolled partway down to let in fresh air, and the little dog seemed pleased.

“Rowdy looks very much at home back there,” Maggie said as she climbed up in the passenger seat. “Do you always take him with you?”

“Most of the time. Rowdy loves to sail almost as much as I do.”

“Smart dog.”

“He’s a border collie. They’re bred to herd cattle and sheep, one of the smartest breeds.”

“Where did you get him?”

“Gabe Raines—the guy who took the photos in my office? His brother owns a ranch in Wyoming. Rowdy was a pup from one of the litters up there.”

Trace closed her door, then went around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. He wasn’t wearing his cowboy hat today, just a white ball cap with an anchor on the front, plus jeans and a yellow knit shirt. No boots, either, just a pair of white canvas deck shoes that were clean but had seen plenty of wear.

The lack of sleep didn’t seem to faze him. He looked every bit as good as he had the night before.

Not liking the train of her thoughts, Maggie sat up a little straighter. “I’d like to get a dog someday,” she said, just to make conversation. “I had a cocker spaniel when I was a kid, but my mom took it with her when she went back to Florida. I keep thinking someday I’ll get one, but right now I’m too busy.”

Trace cast her a glance. “You said you were four when your mom and dad divorced. It must have been tough on you.”

She felt the old familiar ache in her chest. “It was hard. My mother went on with her life and we barely stayed in touch. My dad did his best, but he had to make a living. He owned a small trucking company so he was gone from home a lot.”

“Mine, too. My mom died when I was born. My dad was in the army, so my grandparents pretty much raised me.”

“Out on the ranch,” she said, remembering what he had told her.

“That’s right.”

When he didn’t add more, she let the subject drop. Didn’t sound as if either of them had had a fantastic childhood.

The Jeep rolled along the shady streets. From her town house, they drove through the University District onto the 59 Freeway, then took the 45 south toward the ocean. Kemah was one of a string of seaside communities that fronted Galveston Bay.

At the edge of the water, small weekend retreats that had been there for years sat next to sprawling, newly constructed mansions. Fine white sand surrounded them, lush vegetation and lots of palm and live oak trees.

Trace kept his boat—a sleek, white, low-hulled thirty-eight-footer—at the Kemah Marina, she discovered.

“What kind of boat is it?” Maggie asked. He climbed aboard, then reached down to take her hand and guide her up the steps and onto the deck. “Hunter Legend. Been a great boat to own.”

It was immaculately clean inside, she saw as he gave her a quick tour, and nicely fitted out with blue canvas cushions and lots of teakwood kept highly polished. A dining area and a galley; two cabins and a head.

“So what do you think?”

“She’s beautiful.” Ranger’s Lady was the name painted on the stern. “Name fits, too. Lone Ranger, right? That’s the way I thought of you that day in the Texas Café.”

Trace chuckled. “Not that kind of Ranger. U.S. Army. Kind of a tradition in our family.”

“You were a Ranger?”

He nodded. “My dad, too. That was the reason he was gone so much.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“South America, mostly. We were there but we weren’t, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I can figure it out.” She cast him a glance. “I bet you’ve always been somewhat of a maverick.”

Trace grinned. “Somewhat.”

She looked away, not liking the flutter that grin caused in her stomach. “Mind if I take some shots?”

He glanced around. He had been doing that all day. Second nature, she imagined, for an investigator. And she was, after all, paying him to find a stalker.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get ready to cast off while you wander a little. Just don’t go too far.”

“No problem.”

Trace went to work, and she watched his easy, economical movements. No wasted effort, just do the job and get it done. There was a certain grace there, too. She wondered what he’d look like on the back of a horse, and thought he would probably look as if he’d been born there.

Leaving him to his work, she climbed onto the dock and took some photos of the yachts in the marina. She wandered a bit, snapping a shot here and there: an old lady in a huge straw hat walking her little rust-colored Pekinese; two old men playing cards at a table next to the water; a little kid licking the biggest yellow-and-white rock candy sucker she had ever seen.

She returned to the Ranger’s Lady, snapping photos along the way. When she reached the boat, she realized Trace must have been watching her the entire time she was gone. He was only doing his job, she reminded herself, nothing more. Which for reasons she couldn’t explain, she found mildly annoying.

He helped her aboard, then went back to examining one of the lines that hoisted the sail.

He had stripped off his cotton knit shirt and jeans, leaving him bare chested in a pair of navy blue swim trunks. With his back to her, she couldn’t help checking him out. His skin was a smooth golden-brown and rippling with muscle. His legs were long and corded. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere to be seen.

She couldn’t resist a couple of shots of such a gorgeous man at work on his boat, but at the rhythmical click of the shutter, Trace turned. Broad, solidly muscled shoulders, a chest banded with sinew and lightly furred with dark hair, and a six-pack stomach…

She felt that funny lift again, only a little embarrassed to be caught staring. “I guess you really were a Ranger.”

He just shrugged. “There were times being in condition meant the difference between life and death.”

“You’re not a Ranger now,” she reminded him.

“Old habits die hard.” He lowered a pair of wraparound sunglasses over those whiskey-brown eyes. “You ready?”

She looked at him standing there with his legs splayed, his gaze on the horizon, and had the oddest feeling he was as much a Ranger now as he ever had been. The breeze gusted just then, rattling the ship’s rigging. The Gulf stretched in front of them, blue and beckoning.

“You bet I’m ready.”

Trace tossed off the lines and Maggie settled herself on one of the blue canvas cushions. Rowdy took a place beside her. His ears perked up as the boat began to move, anticipation clear on his little doggy face. Trace manned the wheel and the boat eased away from the dock.

“You’ll have to earn your keep, you know.” He flicked her a glance. “I’ll need you to bring up the fenders and tend the dock lines, maybe take a turn at the wheel. You’ll have to remember to duck when we come about, and of course you’ll need to watch for pirates.”

She laughed, gave him a smart salute. “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Trace grinned. They settled themselves for the trip, the hull slipping smoothly over the water until they reached the open ocean, then the wind picked up and the boat heeled over. The stiff breeze tugged at Maggie’s curls, blowing them across her face, so she dragged the heavy red mane into a ponytail held in place with a small hair elastic.

“I’ve been sailing only a couple of times,” she said. “I went out with a friend when I was in college.”

“Michael Irving?” It was a casual question, yet she thought Trace had just morphed back into a detective.

“A friend in my art history class. Her dad owned a forty-two-foot Catalina.”

“Nice boat.”

“Beautiful. So is yours. You really take good care of her.”

Trace seemed pleased. “I do my best.” He leaned back in the seat behind the wheel, his dark glasses hiding his thoughts.

The sun beat down so warmly she decided it was time to shed her own clothes. “I’m going to change. It’s just too nice a day not to get some sun.”

“Help yourself.”

She disappeared below and came up a few minutes later in a red-and-white-striped bikini. The suit wasn’t exactly modest, but it wasn’t over-the-top risqué, either. She wore a loose-fitting white gauze shirt over it, but that didn’t hide much. Though she couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses, she could feel his very thorough inspection, burning like a laser.

“I guess you like to stay in shape, too,” he said a little gruffly.

She did. Very much so. And she was way too glad he noticed. “I ride my stationary bike in the mornings. I lift a few weights to build bone strength, and I play racquetball whenever I get the chance.”

“Is that so? We’ll have to have a match sometime.”

“You like to play?”

His gaze moved over her again. “Oh, yeah, I like to play.” But his drawl had deepened and she was no longer sure he was talking about raquetball.

They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying the wind and the sea, and the gulls darting back and forth at the stern. When they approached a group of sportsmen fishing for tarpon, Maggie grabbed her camera and went to work. One of the men had hooked up to a real monster, and just as she focused, the fish jumped spectacularly into the air. She caught the shot, snapping a series of photos in milliseconds.

She laughed joyously as the tarpon plunged back into the sea. “My God, did you see that?”

Trace lifted his ball cap and settled it back on his head, a habit she had noticed when he was wearing his cowboy hat. “I sure did. Looks like you got a couple of great photos there.”

She replayed the digital images. “Oh, this makes my day.”

“Just being out here makes mine.”

Maggie agreed. It felt so good to be out on the water, the boat sliding over the surface. They ate the ham-and-cheese sandwiches she had brought, but ignored the Diet Cokes. Instead, Trace cracked open a bottle of chilled chardonnay, poured it into two stemmed glasses, and they toasted the perfect day.

Relaxed, Maggie removed her cover-up, put on some sunscreen, stretched out on the cushions and let the warmth of the sun seep through her. With so little sleep last night, she must have dozed off. The sun had moved toward the horizon and Trace was turning the boat when she awakened.

“Time to go home,” he said.

Maggie felt a twinge of disappointment. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“After last night, you needed the rest.”

She inhaled a deep breath of the salty air. “It’s been wonderful.”

Trace seemed to share her mood. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. We can spend the night if you want. Two staterooms down there. You wouldn’t have to worry about your virtue.”

She was surprised to discover she was tempted, but then sighed. She hardly knew Trace Rawlins, and it was never smart to get involved with someone who worked for you. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to get back.”

“Not a problem.” Wheeling the sailboat expertly through the opening into Clear Lake, he turned toward the marina and his slip at dock A. Easing the vessel neatly into its berth, he tossed a line over the side and pulled the boat in close, then tied it in place.

They’d been out of cell phone range when they were at sea, but now Trace’s iPhone started ringing down in the galley, where he had left it so it wouldn’t fall into the water.

He hit the ladder, reached out and grabbed the phone, pressing it against his ear as he returned to the deck.

“Rawlins.” The caller talked for a while and the lines of Trace’s face went hard. “How’d it happen?”

More conversation, then a muscle tightened in his jaw. “Neither do I. I’m on my way.” Trace hung up the phone and began to pull his jeans on over his swimsuit. “Looks like spending the night wouldn’t have worked for me, either.”

“What’s going on?”

“One of my clients turned up dead. The police think he killed himself. I don’t.”

Maggie slid her pants over her bikini bottoms and adjusted the gauzy cover-up, tying it up around her waist. “You’re saying it was murder?”

“Could be.”

She slipped on her sandals. “I guess finding a murderer tops catching a stalker.”

Trace shook his head. “One has nothing to do with the other. By the time we get home, your alarm system will be installed. As far as the creep goes who’s been bothering you, you hired me to do a job and that’s what I intend to do.”

“What about the murder?”

He gave her a hard-edged smile. “Ever heard of multitasking?”

Maggie didn’t doubt he could handle both cases. One glance at the dark look on his face and she felt sorry for the guy who had murdered his client.

“Besides,” Trace continued, “if Hewitt was murdered, I already know who did it.”

Six

They were headed back to Houston. The perfect day at sea had ended far too quickly.

As he dodged in and out of the heavy traffic on Highway 45, Trace mentally replayed the phone conversation he’d had on the boat.

“Trace, it’s Annie. You need to get back to town. That Sommerset case you just finished? Hewitt Sommerset turned up dead half an hour ago in his study. The police are calling it a suicide.”

Trace’s stomach had knotted. “How’d he die?”

“Gunshot wound to the head. His son doesn’t believe he pulled the trigger.”

He clenched his jaw. “Neither do I.” Hewitt was a good man. Trace needed answers and he was determined to get them.

The car in front of him slowed and he slowed as well, his mind drifting from Hewitt to the pretty redhead in the seat beside him. At least for a while, he had been able to keep Maggie’s mind off her stalker. He wasn’t sure how the man who had left the notes was keeping tabs on her, but there had been no sign of him on their way to the shore or at any time while they were there.

The figurine was another matter. Someone had broken into Maggie’s house. There were no visible signs of entry, but the locks were paltry and there were ways to get in without leaving evidence. By now, the security alarm would be operational and the locks all replaced. Even so, the guy was a threat that had to be dealt with.

Trace had spoken to Rex Westcott and put him on notice to be ready for the stakeout tonight. Maggie was safe for the moment.

Trace thought of the day he had spent with her. He didn’t have a problem mixing business with pleasure, not when it was a good way to do his job. He had let down his guard and relaxed more than he’d meant to, something he rarely did with a woman, but he liked Maggie O’Connell. She was smart and talented and vibrant. Along with that, she was sexy as hell.

He flicked a glance her way, caught a glimpse of soft lips and gorgeous red hair, and his groin tightened. He wanted to take her to bed, taste those pretty lips and lose himself in all those sweet curves.

It was a bad idea, he knew. Every time he got involved with a woman disaster struck.

This is different, he told himself. Nothing more than a physical attraction. He wouldn’t let himself get in too deep.

Trace took a last glance at Maggie, told himself that time would settle the matter one way or the other and forced his thoughts back to the more immediate problem at hand.

The death of his former client, Hewitt Sommerset.

Trace’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. The Saturday traffic along Route 45 had turned brutal. Maybe there was a wreck up ahead, roadwork, something. Whatever it was, his frustration was making him edgy and restless. He stepped on the brake for the hundredth time, bringing the Jeep to a halt behind the white Toyota pickup ahead of him.

He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Dammit! I need to talk to the police.”

Maggie turned in her seat. “You’re going to the crime scene?”

He nodded. “As soon as I drop you off, I’m heading for the Sommerset house.”

Her gaze went to the dense trail of cars rolling slowly along the pavement ahead of them. “Where is it?”

“The Woodlands.” Thirty miles north of Houston. “At this rate it’ll be dark by the time I get there.”

She studied the slow-moving traffic. “You’re probably right. It’ll be even later if you have to drop me off. Why don’t you just take me with you? I’ve got a good book. I can wait in the car until you’re finished. I can see this is important to you, and I really don’t mind.”

He started to say no, then paused. It wasn’t as if there was a shoot-out in progress. The questions he wanted answered and the information he had to deliver wouldn’t take that long. And with traffic the way it was, it would save him at least forty minutes.

“You sure?”

“Thanks to you I got some terrific material today. It’s the least I can do.”

Trace smiled, feeling a wave of relief. “Great.” He wanted to be there for Jason and Emily. Hewitt’s son and daughter were both good kids. It was his son-in-law, Parker Barrington, Emily’s husband, who was the problem.

“So what’s the story?” Maggie asked. “The police think it’s suicide but you think it’s murder. Why is that?”

He rarely talked about a case, but most of this would be in the news in a couple of days, anyway.

“A few weeks ago, the victim—Hewitt Sommerset—came to see me. He wanted to find out if his son-in-law was stealing money from the company.”

“And you found out he was.”

“Parker Barrington is chief financial officer of Sommerset Industries. At Hewitt’s request, we installed a couple hidden cameras, put a live feed in his computer. We caught him doctoring the books, siphoning money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

One of Maggie’s wing-shaped eyebrows went up. “So his hands were definitely sticky.”

“Definitely.”

“You think Hewitt Sommerset confronted his son-in-law, who killed him to keep from being caught?”

“It’s possible. Depending on what Hewitt told him, Parker may not have realized other people already knew.”

The heavy traffic continued until they got a ways north of Houston, then the cars began to thin out. The Woodlands was a huge development of homes, shopping centers and offices, even a prestigious golf course. What made the area such a desirable place to live was that all those things were hidden among dense grooves of trees and beautifully cared-for landscaping.

Trace wound his way along the curving roadways lined with trees and shrubs, and turned onto a street with massive homes tucked away among the foliage on oversize lots. The Sommerset mansion sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Two patrol cars were parked in front, along with Jason Sommerset’s flashy silver Porsche. Emily drove a Mercedes, but it wasn’t there. Trace wondered where her husband was.

He felt a jolt of hot, dark anger. Parker Barrington was in for a little surprise when he found out all the evidence condemning him was well documented. Hewitt was a decent, hardworking man who had built an empire though years of dedicated work. He didn’t deserve to be killed by an ungrateful, thieving son-in-law.

“You look like you’re going to explode.”

Trace shoved the car into Park and turned off the engine. Under different circumstances he would have smiled at Maggie’s words. Instead, he took a deep breath and reined in his temper.

“You’re right. Hewitt was more than a client. He was a friend. Until I’m completely sure what happened, I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” He cracked open his door. “You all right here?”

“I’ll be just fine.”

“With any luck, I won’t be gone long.”

Maggie watched Trace stop to speak to one of the policemen, who let him into the house. It was quite a place, at least ten thousand square feet, and painted a pale, dusky rose. Done in the French style, it sported a mansard roof and arched doors and windows.

The mansion was grand and imposing, and she wondered if Hewitt Sommerset had been happy there. She knew a little about him, what she had seen on TV. He was a well-known figure in the Houston area, a self-made billionaire, a philanthropist who donated millions to charity. He’d been a dedicated husband and father, a man who had greatly mourned the death of his wife two years ago.

In the time since then, Hewitt had returned to work, immersing himself more deeply in the company than he had for a number of years. Maybe that was the reason he had uncovered his son-in-law’s nefarious activities.

Maggie couldn’t help feeling sorry for the daughter who had married such a dirtball. She smiled, thinking she would love to be a fly on the wall when Trace confronted him.

Hearing a soft whine from the back of the Jeep, Maggie got out of the car, went around to the rear and let Rowdy out for a quick pit stop. Several patrol cars were parked at the curb, and a number of officers wandered in and out of the house. Rowdy sniffed the base of a nearby tree, took care of business and returned to the Jeep.

“Load up,” Maggie commanded, as Trace had done, and the dog jumped back up. Making himself comfortable in his bed, he rested his black-and-white muzzle against the cushion.

“Good boy.” Maggie reached in to pet him, then shut the tailgate.

The light was fading but still good. The days were getting longer, the weather warmer. She glanced around, her photographer’s eye kicking in. The sun was beginning to set, but at this time of day, the soft golden rays filtering down through branches of the gnarled old oaks brought out interesting details: the uneven texture of the bark, the faint curl of a newly budded leaf.

Maggie reached into the backseat and grabbed her camera. While she was waiting for Trace, maybe she could catch a few good shots.

Trace crossed the black-and-white marble-floored entry reminiscent of a French château, heading straight to Hewitt’s study. He had been there in the late afternoon just a few days ago, bringing his employer the damning evidence that had been collected against Parker Barrington.

The study, a huge, walnut-paneled room with two-story ceilings and heavy brass chandeliers, swarmed with people now, the forensics squad hard at work poring over the scene. Hewitt’s desk was in disarray and a large bloodstain remained where his body had been found slumped over the top.

“Trace!”

He recognized the youthful voice, turned to see Jason Sommerset walking toward him. He was twenty-four years old, golden-haired, handsome as sin and spoiled rotten. It was amazing he’d turned out to be such a nice kid.

“Jason. I’m so sorry. I liked your father very much.”

His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. But he wasn’t crying now, he was angry. “Dad didn’t do it, Trace. He didn’t kill himself.”

“Take it easy—I don’t think so, either. We talked just last week. He was looking forward to the trip the two of you were taking to the Bahamas.”

“Someone killed him. They made it look like he pulled the trigger, but I know he didn’t.”

Trace settled a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m here. To find out the truth one way or another.”

Jason took a steadying breath. “I knew you’d come. Dad trusted you and so do I.”

Trace just nodded. Clearly, Hewitt hadn’t told his son what they had found out about Emily’s husband. Jason was smart and he seemed to have inherited his father’s gift for sizing people up. Trace wondered if the boy would be all that surprised to discover his brother-in-law was a thief.

Someone called Jason’s name, and with a nod of his head that indicated they would talk again, he walked off down the hall, leaving Trace to the task he had come for. Returning his attention to the study, he scanned the room for anything out of place, and spotted the familiar features of Detective Mark Sayers, a classmate of his at community college and a longtime friend.

Trace walked toward him. “Got a minute?”

His head came up and surprise lit his face. “Hey, Trace.” A little shorter, a little beefier, Mark had light brown hair and hazel eyes. Except for the cheap suits he wore and his overall rumpled appearance, he was a good-looking guy.

“Under different circumstances I’d say it’s good to see you,” Mark said. “But your timing’s not great. I guess you must have heard—Hewitt Sommerset is dead. Looks like he killed himself.”

“I don’t think that’s likely.”

One of Sayers’s light brown eyebrows went up. “That right? I didn’t know the two of you were friends.”

“Business acquaintances, mostly. Grew into a little more than that over the years. You and I need to talk.”

The detective’s interest sharpened. “Okay.” Turning, he led Trace down a hall lined with expensive paintings in heavy gilded frames, and turned into one of the numerous parlors in the house, this one elegantly furnished with peach brocade sofas and dark green velvet drapes. There wasn’t so much as a piece of fringe out of place on the Persian rugs that covered the polished oak floors.

“I guess you’ve talked to Hewitt’s son, Jason,” Trace said as Mark closed the door.

“We talked to him. His reaction isn’t unexpected. No son wants to believe his father killed himself.”

“When did it happen?”

“Last night. Hewitt was supposed to be out of town, but something must have come up. Apparently he keeps his study door closed when he’s away. The body wasn’t found until this afternoon.”

“How was it done?”

“Thirty-eight caliber gunshot to the side of the head. The pistol is registered to Sommerset, who allegedly kept it in a drawer in his desk.”

“But someone else could have pulled the trigger.”

“There were no signs of a struggle.”

“Maybe he was unconscious.”

Sayers pondered that. “I suppose it’s possible. There weren’t any obvious wounds to suggest that.”

“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done some other way.”

Sayers looked unconvinced. “Hewitt left a suicide note, Trace. We found it on his computer.”

“Typed, then. Not handwritten.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, my friend. Nobody writes notes by hand anymore.”

It was a good point, one Trace silently conceded. Not that he believed for a minute that Hewitt had actually written it.

“You need to find out where Parker Barrington was last night.”

Sayers’s gaze narrowed. “Why is that?”

“Parker was embezzling funds from the company. And not small change, either. Millions, Mark. Siphoning the money off to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Jesus. You got any proof?”

“All you need. Hewitt came to me with his suspicions. We set up surveillance in Parker’s office. I took him the cold, hard evidence two days ago.”

The detective’s eyes widened. “Two days ago? You’re not thinking Parker Barrington killed Sommerset to cover up the theft?”

“Unless you can convince me otherwise, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

Sayers glanced away, as if he wished he could look back to the time of the murder. “I’ll need to see what you’ve got.”

“I’ll have it in your office first thing in the morning.”

“And I thought this one was going to be easy.”

Trace’s mouth edged up. “When are they ever easy?”

Mark friend laid a hand on his shoulder, walked him out of the parlor and back down the hall. Trace flicked a last glance into the study as they passed, and continued toward the foyer, lit by a huge chandelier.

“Have you talked to the daughter?” Trace asked.

“She and Parker were here earlier. She was really shaken up. We let him take her home.”

Trace made a mental note to go see her. Once the dirt on Parker was uncovered, Emily was going to need all the support she could get.

Sayers stepped out on the wide front porch and Trace followed.

“Besides murder and mayhem,” his friend said, “anything new and exciting going on in your life?”

Trace thought of Maggie, spotted her at the edge of the yard, snapping photos of beautiful flame-colored tulips growing around the base of a huge oak tree. They were almost the color of her hair. He watched the way she moved, with a confidence and ease that marked her as a professional. Why that turned him on, he couldn’t say.

“Not much,” he answered, but as he looked at Maggie, he was thinking maybe that would change.

Sayers’s gaze followed his toward the tree and he started to frown. “That isn’t… Jesus, Trace, tell me the redhead isn’t with you.”

Trace dragged his gaze away, finding it harder than it should have been. “She’s a client. A photographer. Name’s Maggie O’Connell. Matter of fact, I was planning to talk to you about her.”

“I know who the hell she is.”

Trace didn’t like the sound of that. “Want to tell me why?”

Sayers drew him away from the hum of officers and people walking in and out of the mansion. “I shouldn’t say this. I could get in a shitload of trouble, but…”

“What is it?”

“She came to us claiming she had a stalker. Said she’d been getting hang-up phone calls, that kind of thing.”

“That’s right. Go on.”

“Captain Varner got wind of it. Turns out Maggie O’Connell brought rape charges against his son, Josh, when she was in high school. Josh was arrested. He claimed he was innocent, claimed Maggie was a willing partner. They were both underage or it would have been far worse. As it was, Josh got kicked off the football team and everyone in his school basically shunned him. They called him a rapist and a pervert, stuff like that. It went on for more than a week—until the O’Connell girl admitted she had lied about the rape.”

“Maybe she was telling the truth and she just got scared.”

“The boy was completely cleared. They’d been seeing each other for weeks.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“She’s one of those women, Trace. She wanted attention and she got it. The charges were dropped and the records were sealed because of their ages, but it still caused Josh and his family all kinds of trouble. And believe me, Maggie O’Connell is still on Varner’s hit list.”

“Which is why the police aren’t willing to do much more than show up if she calls them.”

Mark shot Maggie a hard glare. “It’s no secret in the department what happened. Captain Varner doesn’t believe any of that bullshit about a stalker, and neither does anyone else.”

Trace clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Mark was the kind of guy who would check the facts, find out the truth. The story about the phony rape accusation was undoubtedly true.

“She’s a good-looking woman, Trace, but I wouldn’t trust her. Don’t let her get under your skin.”

Trace reined in his temper, which was beginning to build. “Thanks for the heads-up, buddy.”

“Hey, man, we’re friends. And you’ve already had more than your share of trouble with women.”

Trace thought of Carly, remembered the sick feeling in his stomach when he’d found out she was sleeping with half the men in Houston. She was a liar and a cheat. He hated a liar, no matter how beautiful she was.

He just nodded as he walked away.

Seven

Maggie was smiling as she stuffed her camera back in its case, nestled it in the backseat and closed the door, then climbed into the Jeep. “How did it go?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“Did you tell them about the embezzling?”

“I told them.” Trace didn’t say more, and the way his jaw was clenched, Maggie didn’t press him. He started the car, slammed it into gear and roared away, slinging her back against the seat. His hands gripped the wheel as if he wanted to tear it out of the vehicle. Whatever had happened, things hadn’t gone well.

Maggie kept her mouth shut. Better to give him a little space. As they raced toward Houston, far faster than the speed limit, she considered trying again to start a conversation, but one look at Trace’s hard profile and she changed her mind.

They rode back in silence, neither of them speaking all the way to her town house. By the time they arrived and Trace turned off the engine, Maggie couldn’t take another minute.

“All right, what is it?” she asked. “If it’s the murder, I’ll understand. If it’s something else, something I’ve said or done wrong…”

He turned in the seat. “You’re a liar, Maggie. In my book, that’s as wrong as it gets.”

Her stomach twisted at the look on his face. “What are you talking about?”

Trace climbed out of the car, rounded the hood and jerked open her door. “As of right now, I no longer work for you. Find some other sucker to buy into your bullshit.”

Her eyes widened. Her own anger surfaced. “What the hell is going on? The least you can do is explain.”

Instead of a reply, he caught hold of her arm and hauled her out of the Jeep. He pulled a key from a pocket of his jeans and held it out to her.

“Your new locks are in. The installers left a key with me this morning. You’ll find another inside. I’ll get your bag and your camera gear.”

She planted herself directly in front of him, jammed her hands on her hips. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened back there that turned you into a maniac.”

He ground his teeth, looking as if he wanted to throttle her. “I told you what happened. You lied to me. If you try real hard, I imagine you can figure out which particular lie I might have found a little disturbing.”

An icy chill ran through her. He’d been talking to the police. They must have seen her, must have said something. They must have told him about her Great Shame.

Her hands dropped to her sides. She realized she was trembling. “Josh Varner, right?”

“That’s right. Your old boyfriend. Now go unlock the door so I can carry your gear inside and be on my way.”

Her heart was beating too fast, slamming against her ribs. She felt sick to her stomach. Not wanting to make a scene in front of the neighbors, she led him to the door of the town house, used the key he’d given her to open the door and stepped aside so he could carry her gear inside.

Wordlessly, he stalked past her into the hall, set her camera case and yellow swim bag on the floor. The muscles in his shoulders seemed to vibrate with tension. He was angry. Furious. And he had every right to be.

She took a deep breath. “Okay, I probably should have told you.”

Trace whirled to face her, his dark eyes burning into her like twin laser beams. “Probably?”

“All right, I should have told you. I didn’t because I was afraid you would act exactly the way you’re acting now.”

“I said I’d help you if you told me what I needed to know. You didn’t think I needed to know you had an enemy in the police department? That you’d accused some poor kid of rape when he didn’t do a goddamn thing but take what you offered?”

She hated the way Trace made it sound, though every word was true. In the past she would have cried, but those days were over.

Instead, she steeled herself, forced up her chin. “I was sixteen years old. My dad caught me coming in at two in the morning and I was scared to death. I was terrified of what he’d do if he knew the truth.”

“Beat you?”

“No, but—”

“I’m done, Maggie. You lied to me before. There’s no reason to believe you’re telling me the truth right now.”

She steadied herself, fought for control. “I was ashamed to tell you, all right? It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

His hard look didn’t soften. No more Mr. Nice Guy, she thought. The charming Southern gentleman was gone. In his place was the fierce Army Ranger he had been and clearly still was. Gold flecks glittered in his dark eyes, and the muscles tightened in his jaw.

“Goodbye, Maggie.” He started to turn away, but she caught his arm.

“Trace, please. At least give me a chance to explain.”

“You’ve already explained. We had a deal. You didn’t keep your end of it. Now the deal is off.”

“But…what about the stalker?”

His jaw tightened even more. “Call the police.”

“They won’t help and you know it.”

“The locks are changed. Your alarm is in. I’ll send over one of the guys from JDT to show you how to use it.” His smile was harsh. “Though odds are you won’t need it.”

He no longer believed her. By his standards, she wasn’t worthy of his trust.

“Thank you for that.”

Trace made no reply. Without a backward glance, he turned and stormed out the door. Maggie forced herself not to run after him. She had her pride, didn’t she? Sure, she should have told him about Josh, should have known he would find out sooner or later. But she had wrongly believed that if he did discover her secret, she could simply explain and Mr. Nice Guy Rawlins would understand.

Now she knew Trace Rawlins wasn’t always the calm, controlled, soft-spoken guy she had believed. He was a man of fierce conviction and strong emotions.

As she watched his long strides carry him toward the Jeep, something stirred inside her. Some primal instinct that found such a hard, determined man even more attractive than the gentleman he had once seemed.

He jerked open the door and slid behind the wheel, and desire slipped through her. She watched him start the engine, put the car in reverse, then drive away. In moments, he was gone.

Maggie’s insides felt heavy. It was ridiculous. She barely knew the man, and yet flickers of heat still tingled through her body, along with a need she had taught herself to ignore.

But she had always been a passionate woman. Passionate about life, about her work, about her family and friends. It shouldn’t come as a surprise she would respond to a passionate man.

Maggie sighed, wishing things could have been different, grateful the relationship hadn’t gone further than it had before it fell apart.

She turned to assess her surroundings. The town house had been left neat and tidy. Aside from a note and a business card belonging to JDT Security Systems lying on her breakfast bar, and a second set of keys, there was no evidence the installation crew had been there.

She walked over to the counter. The note read, “Installation complete. Trace can show you how to set the alarm.”

Except that Trace was gone.

He would send a man over, he had said, and she knew that he would. He was reliable, steady. But he had a temper she hadn’t expected. She would have liked to discover the man beneath his surface calm, test the fire he kept so carefully controlled and explore the attraction between them.

If things had worked out differently…

But things hadn’t worked out, and that was the end of it.

Trace sat in his office Monday morning reading the newspaper. Except for his Saturday trip to the shore, he’d had a shitty weekend. Hewitt Sommerset was dead. Parker Barrington had very likely killed him. And Maggie O’Connell had turned out to be just another deceitful woman.

He folded the paper and set it on his desk. The headline stared up at him. Missing Woman Found. The article told of a teenage boy finding a woman’s body washed up on a local beach. No positive identification had been made at the time the article was written, but the victim’s clothing and hair led authorities to believe it was the young woman who had recently disappeared. An autopsy was scheduled to determine the cause of death.

Unconsciously, Trace glanced toward the door, expecting Carly to appear any minute demanding his protection. He wasn’t in the mood for his ex-wife and her dramatics, or any other woman—at least not right now.

His thoughts returned to Maggie and the bitter disappointment he felt. She had lied about the false rape, about the police and probably about the stalker.

Worse yet, she had made Trace lose control.

It didn’t happen often. Like honor and honesty, in his family, control was a valued commodity. His daddy had lost his temper only once, when Trace had lied to him about sneaking out to meet his friend Willie Johnson and drinking the pint of whiskey Willie had stolen from his mama’s special medicinal supply. Trace had been ten years old and his father had used a hickory switch to show him the error of his ways.

Later, his dad had come to him and apologized, as if he were the one who had done something wrong.

“I lost my temper, son. A man can’t afford to let that happen. Not ever.”

And because Trace wanted to be the man his dad believed him to be, he made sure it never happened.

Well, almost never.

In the army, his nickname had been Ghost. It wasn’t just because he had a talent for appearing and disappearing without being seen, a skill that often came in handy. It was also because of the way he remained in control, the way he always stayed calm no matter the situation. Calm and controlled, out of sight and out of mind, as quiet as a ghost.

But Maggie O’Connell had broken through his well-honed defenses. He had begun to trust her, begun to let down his guard.

She’s one of those women, Mark Sayers had said. The kind who crave attention, the kind who’ll do anything to get it. But she hadn’t seemed that way. Which just proved what a piss-poor judge Trace was of women.

Worse yet, part of him worried that maybe Sayers was wrong. Maybe there was a stalker. Maybe—at least about that—Maggie had been telling the truth.

Trace leaned back in his chair, refusing to continue dwelling on his brief relationship with another woman he couldn’t trust. He glanced up at a knock at his office door, watched it swing open. Annie never waited for permission.

“Detective Sayers is here to see you. Wants to talk to you about the information you left for him.”

Trace sat up in his chair. “Send him in.”

Mark walked into the office and closed the door. As always, his light brown hair was neatly combed, while his J. C. Penney suit was slightly wrinkled.

“Parker’s got an alibi,” he said, cutting straight to the point. “His wife says he was home with her all evening.”

“Bullshit.” Trace came out of his chair. “She’s covering for him. Emily’s been a fool for Parker since the day she met him.”

“We’ve still got the embezzlement charges. The D.A.’s on it. He’s putting together a case. He doesn’t want to move until he’s got all his ducks in a row.”

“I’ll talk to Jason, tell him what’s going on. I’ll ask him to speak to his sister, see if he can get her to tell the truth.”

“He doesn’t know about the stolen money?”

“Not yet,” Trace said. “But he’s in line to take over the company. He’s going to need to be told.”

“Might not be a good idea,” Mark said. “Word is the kid’s pretty hotheaded. He might come to the same conclusion you did, and try to do something about it.”

Trace thought of the son who had worshipped his powerful father. “You might be right.”

“We’re on this thing, Trace. If Parker killed Sommerset, he’s going down for it.”

He nodded. “The funeral is on Wednesday. Once it’s over, things will settle down. I’ll talk to Emily myself, pay my respects. I’ll be sure not to mention that her no-good husband was stealing a fortune from her dad.”

Mark chuckled. “Sounds good. Let me know how it goes.”

Trace walked his friend through the office, out to the unmarked brown Chevy he was driving that perfectly matched his inexpensive brown suit.

“So what happened with the redhead?” Mark asked as he opened the car door.

“I wouldn’t know. She’s no longer my client.”

“Wise move. I can tell you that as far as I know, she hasn’t made any more 911 calls.”

“That’s good, I guess.” But Maggie had always been reluctant to call the police. She didn’t think they would help her, and pretty much, she was right.

Trace didn’t like the way that made him feel.

“Like I said, keep me in the loop.” Mark slid into the car and drove out of the lot, and Trace returned to his office. The kid, Sol Greenway, was working at his desk in the glass-windowed office next to Trace’s, partly hidden behind a couple of forty-inch monitors. Trace was good at digging up information, but the kid was better. He could find out anything, legally or illegally. Trace was careful not to encourage him.

Most of the time.

The door was open, Trace walked in and Sol looked up at him. “Yeah, boss?”

“Think you can get into an old, sealed, juvenile arrest file?”

Sol grinned. He pushed his long, straight dark hair out of his eyes. “Sure. Just give me a name.”

“Margaret O’Connell. I’ll get you her address and phone number and whatever else I’ve got.”

“Shouldn’t take long.” Sol cracked his knuckles, a habit Trace found mildly annoying, then replaced his fingers on the keyboard.

Silently cursing himself for giving in to his worry about Maggie, Trace turned and walked back out the door.

Eight

The days slipped past. As promised, a man with JDT Security Systems arrived at her door within an hour after Trace had brought her home from their trip to the shore. Mr. Wilcox had carefully shown her how to set the alarm, and had checked to see that everything was working as it should.

“It’s a wireless system,” he explained. “Fairly basic, but it’s all most people ever need. If the alarm goes off and you don’t enter the proper codes to turn it off, the system automatically calls the security company. From there, the police are notified. You should be perfectly safe as long as you remember to turn it on.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilcox.”

“No problem.”

So far there hadn’t been.

And she had to admit she felt safer with the alarm system in and dead bolts installed. Since nearly a week had passed and there hadn’t been any more notes or hang-up calls, she was beginning to think she didn’t need Mr. He-man Rawlins, after all.

The doorbell rang. It was Friday night. The weekend had finally arrived and Maggie had plans for the evening. She checked the peephole, smiled and opened the door.

Dressed in tight red leather pants and a red silk blouse that left her midriff bare, Roxanne sashayed through the door. “You ready, lamb chop?” With her black hair swept into a twist and soft tendrils curling beside her ears, Roxanne, at thirty, was a fox.

Maggie smiled. “I’m ready.” Her own outfit was a little less flashy, a very short black skirt, gold silk halter top, gold jewelry and very high black-and-gold heels. “I’m overdue for a little fun.”

They were going to Galaxy, an upscale nightclub that catered to the late-twenties through early-forties crowd. Maggie loved to dance. Anything from modern to ballroom, country to hip-hop. Anytime, anyplace, she was game. She was especially good at swing and ballroom dancing, since her dad had insisted she take cotillion.

Cotillion. The old-fashioned word made her smile. Because she didn’t have a mother “to teach her certain things,” her dad had signed her up on her twelfth birthday, and insisted she attend classes once a week.

Now she was glad she had.

“Grab your purse, girl. Let’s rock and roll.” Roxanne was always up for going out. She liked drinking martinis and socializing more than actually dancing, but it worked out fine just the same. And since Roxy was leaving for a couple weeks to visit friends in New York, this was kind of a farewell evening.

“Car’s out front,” Rox said. “I’ve got Alonzo driving tonight so we don’t have to worry if we get a little tipsy.”

Roxanne had more money than she could spend, a legacy of her daddy’s oil fortune. Though she was two years older than Maggie, they had gone to the U of Houston together, Roxanne starting as a freshman after she had spent a couple years jet-setting around Europe.

They had met in art history class, the one subject Roxanne knew backward and forward, since she had seen a number of antiquities up close and personal in her travels and developed an appreciation. Aside from their common interest in art, for reasons neither of them completely understood, they had become fast friends and still were.

Roxanne’s white Mercedes S550 sat in front of the condo, with Alonzo, her good-looking part-time driver, seated behind the wheel. She and Maggie climbed into the backseat and headed for Galaxy, which was over by the Galleria.

It didn’t take long to get there. Alonzo opened the door for them, and as they made their way toward the entrance, the doorman recognized them and waved them to the front of the line.

“Thanks, honey,” Roxanne said to the big black bouncer with the thick Southern accent.

He just grinned. “You two gals be good tonight. Don’t y’all go gettin’ them boys stirred up and fightin’ over ya.”

Maggie laughed at the backhanded compliment. “We’ll be sure to mind our manners.”

They stepped inside, onto the stainless-steel floor in the entry, and were captured immediately by the heavy beat of the music. The place was slick and modern, with lots of brushed chrome and dark wood. Mauve and blue lighting gleamed beneath the bar and along the walls, and the ceiling glittered with tiny white lights that winked like stars. The stainless-steel dance floor was large and the DJ was really good at choosing songs, usually a combo of top forty and Latin, with a little disco and the occasional country song thrown in.

Since the crowd was her age or older and Maggie was a regular, she knew a number of people in the crowd. As she and Roxanne slid onto high, dark blue leather seats at the black granite bar, a face she hadn’t seen in months was one of the first she recognized.

Roxy leaned toward her, raising her voice a little to be heard above the music and the crowd. “Isn’t that your old flame, David, sitting over there?”

Since she had already spotted him, Maggie kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. “That’s him.”

“I thought he was dating someone.”

“I thought so, too.” But clearly, he was alone tonight. Their breakup two years ago hadn’t been easy and Maggie felt a tightening in her stomach.

The bartender walked over just then, olive-skinned and handsome. “What can I get for you ladies?”

“Grey Goose martini, if you please, Enrique.” Roxy had an amazing memory for the names of good-looking men. “Up, and very, very dry.”

“I’ll have a Cosmo,” Maggie added, but one or two were her limit. She was basically a white-wine drinker, though occasionally the strong, fruity cocktail tasted good.

Roxanne leaned closer. “Don’t look now, but I think he’s coming over.”

Maggie inwardly groaned. She told herself not to glance in David’s direction, but her eyes went there just the same. He stopped in front of her, a tall man, very lean and perfectly groomed, with blond hair and pale blue eyes.

“It’s good to see you, Maggie.”

She smiled, tried to ignore the thread of guilt she felt for the way they had parted. “You’re looking well, David.”

“Thank you. You look beautiful. But then you always do.” Very formal, always proper, that was David.

“You remember Roxanne?”

“Of course. Hello, Roxanne.”

Roxy took a sip from her long-stemmed glass. “I’m surprised to see you here, David. You were never much for socializing.”

David did corporate law for Holder Holder & Meeks. He was happiest behind his desk working on briefs, or researching case law. Just going out with another couple for dinner was a major undertaking for David. Which had been a problem for Maggie, since her job required she attend various gallery shows around the state, and meeting people was just good business. It was also something she enjoyed.

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